


Wethern's Law

by fanficology



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Complete, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Dates, Misunderstandings, Pre-Relationship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficology/pseuds/fanficology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a reason Molly isn't a consulting detective and Sherlock sees an excellent opportunity in her wrong assumption. Now complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wethern's Law: Assumption is the mother of all screw-ups.
> 
> Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-keys for betaing this story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picture by Artbylexie. Visit her tumblr (artbylexie.tumblr.com) to see more Sherlolly goodness! PS: Don't be an asshat and repost this places. Seriously y'all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Chapter 1

Chapter Text

"Molly, I have decided it is in John and my best interest to bring our relationship to the next level."

Molly Hooper dropped the tray of sterilized instruments she had just finished organizing at Sherlock's sudden pronouncement. He had come in earlier to collect aortic valves for an experiment. He had been waiting for nearly a month for an appropriate donor body to come in to do his experiment. He was lucky that University College's freezers were under repair and Barts had taken some of their load. Much to Molly's surprise, he didn't leave after collecting his prize like usual instead choosing to conduct his experiment at Barts.

Silence hung in the air as neither of them spoke. Perhaps she only imagined him saying it. Though why on Earth she would imagine him saying that was beyond her. If she was going to imagine Sherlock saying something like that she would imagine him declaring his burning desire for her not John. The fact that it was John and not her that he was talking about made her think that she, in fact, did not imagine it.

"I will need your guidance to make sure I proceed appropriately." His voice sounded almost hesitant. Well, hesitant for Sherlock Holmes. That tone in anyone else would sound more than confident. Arrogant even. That's just how Sherlock was. Hide any uncertainty with an extreme amount of confidence so that no one would second guess you.

Molly slowly gathered her now unsterile instruments, cursing the fact that she would have to make up a new tray. Just an extra thirty seconds was all she needed to compose herself. She tried to school her face into something approaching calm and accepting as she turned to face her. In his own Sherlock way he just came out to her. If she was the first person that he did so, she wanted to make sure he knew that she thought that it was fine. Most of the time, she was pretty sure her opinion didn't mean much-though he at least did lip service to asking her opinion lately- but she knew that for most people this was a Big Thing. There was no way she was going to take the chances that he would not find it to be so. After spending three years living with him off and on after his faked suicide, Molly came to realize how much Sherlock wanted- no needed- to be accepted. Not by everyone, not even by a lot of people but he needed the handful of people he had chosen to be in his life to accept him, body parts in the fridge and hoarding tendencies and all.

Though, really, she couldn't be blamed for being surprised. Save that one woman several Christmases ago it is not like he showed interest in any woman. Or any man. Or, really, anyone. Honestly, Molly was starting to think that he may be asexual. His sudden pronouncement came a bit out of the blue. In a way, it made sense that Sherlock would chose John. He spent the majority of his time with him and after those years of living with Sherlock Molly was of the opinion that John deserved to be canonized for some of the shit he put up with. John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes better than any person on the planet and Molly was confident the same applied for Sherlock's knowledge of John. That didn't stop the hurt when the tiny flicker of hope she tried to shut away and pretend didn't exist was suddenly and irrevocable snuffed.

Chances were her smile was more nervous than accepting but really that was pretty much par for the course when it came to her interactions with Sherlock. Go for being nonchalant; come out being meek and awkward. Ask most observant man she'd ever met out on a date; he thinks she's wishes to unleash her inner barista. Instead of Murphy's Law, Molly had Sherlock's Law. Anything that had the slightest potential to be an awkward encounter with Sherlock will be more than likely become more awkward than you ever anticipated. She had thought that Sherlock's Law had mostly faded away over the years but here it was: back like an unlucky penny.

Sherlock's eyes swept over her lightning quick, the way they always did when he entered a room or first spoke to a person. His face became masklike after deducing her down to her atoms. There was no way he didn't know what she was thinking. There was no way he didn't see the despair in her eyes as she finally realized that she never ever stood a chance with Sherlock Holmes. "I take it you don't agree."

"No!" Molly protested. It was more than fine if he was gay or bi or just John Watson-sexual. Just because he didn't want her the way she wanted him didn't mean she hated him or anything. Sure it would take some time to get over the hurt but really it was fine. In some small way this was good. A very small infinitesimal way. A look so hard for a silver lining you aren't entirely sure if you just imagined it type of way. Of course he eschewed her advances. She'd do the same if a woman made the same advances to her. Though Molly thought she would at least have the courtesy to state her sexual preference so as not to give this theoretical woman hope. Like any woman would be interested her. Molly shook her head as her thought train started to derail. "Of course, I'll help you with John. Why wouldn't I? This is just-news. I mean, wonderful news. Yes, wonderful." She cringed at the shrill laugh she let out. So much for playing it cool. "Just-just let me know what you need help with."

Molly was almost insulted by the stunned look on Sherlock's face at her pronouncement. Did he really think she wouldn't help him? After all she had done for him, did he really think her loyalty would falter because of his sexual preference? She may love him but that was her problem, not his. Just because he wanted to be with someone who wasn't her doesn't mean she would stop being his friend. Revise almost insulted, she was insulted.

"I mean it. Questions on dates and relationships and things. I'll help any way I can. I'll have to base it off of my own experience but it should give you a jumping off point, right? Little data is better than no data." Molly suddenly became aware that she had been nodding enthusiastically for the entire time she was talking. Christ, she probably looked like a bizarre bobble head doll.

Sherlock blinked at her. "You are going to help me with John."

It wasn't a question yet it wasn't quite a statement. It almost sounded as if he was testing out the words, contemplating each syllable as he uttered it.

"Of course. Yes, feel free to ask me questions. I'll help, no problem. Oh my is that the time?" She looked at her wrist, knowing that Sherlock would notice she wasn't wearing a watch but not truly caring, "This can wait until later, right? Of course it can. I have post mortems to do. Bit of a back up with University's fridges on the fritz plus our own load. Busy busy! Everyone is just dying to come here." Molly's eyes rounded in horror when she realized what she just said. Of all the jokes she had to make she made that one. "Oh God."

Molly ran from the room before something even worse slipped out of her mouth. She'd just make a tech get her another tray

* * *

 

"Please tell me you asked her and can stop acting like a 15 year old girl," was John's greeting as soon as Sherlock stepped over the doorframe. He glanced up when Sherlock didn't respond to him. Sherlock always replied unless he was in his mind palace and he wouldn't let something like John calling him a 15-year-old girl slide.

Sherlock stood there with a faint expression of disbelief on his face. He opened his mouth before closing it without saying anything. John sat up at the expression. He couldn't remember the last time-or ever really- seeing Sherlock so stunned.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" This was starting to get weird. Did Molly-Molly Hooper- actually say no? He'd be baffled and a little bit impressed if she did.

"She thinks I want to date you."

John coughed violently as he choked on his own spit. John gasped comically loud for air after his lung stopped seizing. He finally managed to wheeze out, "How did you ask out a girl and come away with her thinking you're gay?"

Sherlock sat down heavily. "Perhaps she is just not as intelligent as I had believed her to be. I don't see how she could possibly misinterpret what I said. I told her why I was asking her out before warning her that I had not done this before and therefore am in need in guidance."

"Wait. Hold up. What exactly did you say? No paraphrasing. Exact words."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "I said, 'Molly, I have decided it is in John and my best interest to bring our relationship to the next level.' To which she stared at me in disbelief and stammered something about how she will help me woo you before buggering off!"

Sherlock must be upset if he started to use profanity, no matter how mild. "Sherlock. Think about what you said. Really think." His flat mate looked offended by being told to think. He cut him off before the dark haired man could speak. "Don't say anything, just think it over."

John sat back and watched Sherlock contemplate his words to Molly. He smirked into his cup of tea as realization dawned on Sherlock's face. "Oh."

"There it is." He sat back with his newspaper, content with examining the footie scores. It was always nice to be better at something than Sherlock.

"Damn."

"Yeah. Well done, mate."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-key for beta-ing!
> 
>  
> 
> Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am thrilled and more than a little bit shocked at the response that this received. I only hope I don’t disappoint. As you may have noticed, this is not marked as completed. There will be a fair number of chapters after this, so please enjoy the ride!

 

Molly was well aware that she looked like a wet dog the way she was shaking her head. But when one’s friend tricked one into taking a shot of whiskey, certain dignities had to be done away with.  She grabbed the shirt of the passing bartender. “Vodka Cran. Please”

 

“Sweetie, maybe you should stop.”

 

“No,” Molly said curtly.  “You-you’ve been ragging on me for weeks. Weeks! About coming out with you guys.  Get a life, _Molly_!  You’re looking like one of your corpses, _Molly_! Are you sure you haven’t turned into a vampire, _Molly_?  When was the last time you saw the sun, _Molly_?”  The finger that was meant to be pointing imperiously at Meena wandered about the more forcefully Molly tried to keep it straight.  “Well here I am.  Drinking. With you.”

 

“Yeah, but you’ve had well, a lot.”  Meena grabbed Molly’s hand and eased it back down onto the bar.

 

“Oh shut up, Meena.  Girl’s had her heart broken.  Let her bitch and get it out.  She’ll explode otherwise.”

 

Molly turned to Samantha, the room spinning dangerously.  She felt too tall, the table and floor suddenly further away than usual.  It was as if she wearing a new contact prescription.  “Sam, you’re my favorite.”

 

“I know.  Here.  Have another.”  She slid a shot glass of full of amber liquid across the wood.

 

Molly eyed the glass suspiciously.  “That’s whiskey.  I’m not falling for that again.  Whiskey,” she scoffed.  “Like paint thinner.”

 

“You have no class, Mols.”  Sam grabbed the glass she had offered Molly and drank it, throwing her head back as she did so.

 

“Molly,” Meena tried again, “you’ve had a fair bit to drink already.   Not counting what you just ordered.  You _do_ have to work tomorrow!”

 

“I’m fine! Remember your 24th?  When I had like ten shots plus whatever the hell was in that punch what’s his name made?  And the next morning I didn’t have a hangover and _you_ wanted to harvest my liver for science?  I haven’t had nearly that much yet.  I’m fine!”  Molly raised her hand to accept her drink from the bartender.

 

Meena grabbed Molly’s drink after she’d successfully sloshed it onto the polished wood.  “You were also ten years younger and a stone heavier.”

 

“I was fat,” Molly interrupted, mournfully inspecting one of her chips before popping it in her mouth.  They needed more salt.

 

“Oh shut up, you were not.  Also, last time we went out drinking _somebody_ called me the next morning promising never to drink again.  Who was that, again?  Oh, it was you!”

 

“I’m trying to rebuild my tolerance.” Molly huddled around her cranberry and vodka, blowing on the drink as if trying to cool it.   She crinkled her nose at that.  Why was she blowing on her drink?  Oh hell, it’s not like it hurt it.

 

“In one night?” Meena cocked an eyebrow at her.  Molly hated when she did that.  It was the one talent she wished she had-even more than being able to draw or write- more than anything, being able to cock one eyebrow.  It was so sassy. 

 

“I dream big.”

 

Meena rolled her eyes and shared a glance with Sam. 

 

“At least you know where you stand now,” Sam suggested after the silence grew too long.

 

Molly slumped over her drink.   She always knew where she stood with Sherlock, she was just the absolute moron who still hoped despite the copious amount of evidence pointing in the opposite direction.  Probably a good thing Sherlock was into John.  If it was another woman she never would have been able to stop hoping.    There would always be that one part that would wish that they would break up and he would realize she was there all along.  Damn it, that sound like the plot of a movie.  Not only was she sitting in a bar on a Tuesday drinking and moping about a man who would never love her, she was sketching out bad rom-com scenarios in her head.

 

 She really needed to start dating again.  “Am I pathetic? It's not like we’re dating.  Hell, I’m not even sure he thought I was a friend.  He always says John’s his only friend.  I was a friend though, a damn good friend. “  Molly straightened and declared, “I’m a damn good friend!”

 

Even ignoring how she helped him fake his death and all the aid she gave while he was ‘dead’ she was a good friend.  She always lent a sympathetic ear to his rants; assisted him in his experiments, no matter how bizarre; she came over to Baker Street to help him do research for cases when he needed it.

 

They exchanged texts that were completely unrelated to work.  She’d snap random pictures of people on her commute and send them to Sherlock for him to dissect. It helped keep him from becoming too antsy when cases were low or he was stuck in court waiting to testify. 

She’d discovered this by accident a couple months after he jumped off of Bart’s when she snapped a surreptitious mobile picture of boy on the tube that looked like an 80s era Michael Jackson.  She had meant to send it to Sam but hit Sherlock instead.  Twenty seconds later she got a long text detailing the man’s life history. 

 

She still wasn't entirely sure how he knew he smelled like guava from a text.  But as she was pushed forward by people getting off at Farringdon she caught a whiff of him and sure enough he smelled like guava.  Sherlock never told her how he did it.

 

When John was on a date-which was actually quite often, how did one man get so many dates? - and Sherlock was bored (or, as Molly suspected, lonely) they would meet at one of their flats for supper.   Where they would have wonderful conversations or eat in companionable silence.  Where she so desperately wanted to pretend that they were dating because they just worked so well together.  She didn’t pretend, though.  Mostly because she’d had more romantic meals with Toby.  He didn’t go on rants while she was trying to watch _Popstar to Operstar._ Though, to be fair to Sherlock, she didn’t think she would prefer a meal where he constantly poked her in the side and begged her for food.  But also because she couldn’t help but think it was a little creepy to pretend they were something they weren’t.  It sounded like something out of a bad thriller film.  _The Pathologist._ Tagline: She can’t tell pretend from reality anymore! 

 

She took another chip (they still needed salt), ignoring the buzz of the bar and soothing noises her friends were making.  Enough was enough.  This would be a night of emotional indulgence, but tomorrow would be the day of a new Molly.  Molly 2.0. Or, well, maybe more like Molly 1.0.1 because she had no desire to change anything else about herself, just the mooning over Sherlock bit. Well, she wouldn’t mind being a little taller.   With larger breasts.  And a more pert bum… but the mooning over Sherlock part was attainable. It was unlikely at the age of 32 she was going to grow anymore, surgery sounded painful, and she couldn’t be arsed to work out when there was ice cream to eat instead.

 

Molly started at Sam running a hand up and down her back.   She’d forgotten for a moment that she wasn’t alone. “Yes, you’re a good friend. And you’re only pathetic if you dwell on it. Give it some time.  You’re gonna be fine, just another crush to get over, yeah?”

 

The straw dug into the roof of Molly’s mouth as she attempted to drink and rest her chin on the table.  Better write that idea off as a bad job, she thought as she sat up.  Perhaps stabbing her ice with her straw would be more effective. “’S not a crush.” Stab.  ” I love the git.  With his stupid hair,” stab, “and stupid brain,” stab, “and stupid face.” An ice cube popped out of her cup and landed on the bar.

 

“And that stupid hat,” Meena chimed in.

 

“And his ridiculous blog,” Sam said, chuckling.

 

“His blog is stupid,” Molly agreed.

 

“Says the girl with the bright pink, kitten covered blog?”

  
“Leave the kittens alone.”  Molly grinned as she flicked her straw at Meena, splattering droplets on her glasses.   Her smile faded at the edge.  “I never stood a chance.” 

 

“And we’re back to morose drunk,” Sam muttered.

 

“He asked me for advice. _Advice._ ”

 

“And we’re back to the beginning of the conversation.”  Meena signaled the bartender to close their tab.

 

“What sort of advice can I give?  I mean _I_ know how to date a guy but I don’t think wearing a push up bra or making sure to always have pepper spray is going to help him much.”

 

“Can you please tell him to wear a push up bra anyway?” Sam choked out in between laughs.

 

“I guess instead of shaving his legs I can tell him just to shave really close but I think he does that already. His cheeks are always so smooth looking. I mean _really_ what was I thinking?”  Molly continued on, ignoring Sam.   She’d seen Sherlock in drag before.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.  “I can’t give advice!  I mean, look: I dated a fucking serial killer who may or may not have been gay.  Not to mention Robby who was like a forty-year-old man-child.  Or David!  I mean really the best thing about him was the fact that he kissed like my brother’s dog.  The _best_ thing. This is all on top of the fact I’ve been in love with him for about ninety years!   And he trusts _me_ to give good advice?  I can barely manage my own love life!”  Molly put her hands on her head as a thought struck her suddenly. “Oh my God.   I’m going to doom them with my bad advice.  They’re going to break up because I said something stupid.  They’re going to break up and- and crime will spike because they won’t be taking cases because they won’t be able to stand the sight of each other because my advice will be just that bad and it’ll be my fault.  What if it’s so bad Sherlock relapses?  What if he relapses and overdoes? What if he relapses and overdoses and _dies_ because I don’t know how to date!  Oh my God, I can’t do this.”

 

“Jesus, Molly!” Meena exclaimed. “Chill out.  I’m sure he won’t ask like in depth questions.  He’ll want to know shit like what presents to buy and where to take him on dates.  It’s not like he’s going to ask how to give a blow job or anything.”

 

Molly’s jaw nearly unhinged itself in shock.

 

“What?” 

 

“What if he asks for sex tips?”  Molly asked so loudly, everyone in a two-meter radius stopped their conversations to stare at her.  “How the hell do I answer that?”

 

“Yeah, okay. It’s time to go.”  Sam threw money on the bar and grabbed Molly’s elbow.

 

“What do I say?  Should I tell him?  Give him a Cosmo?”  Molly asked as Sam dragged her through the crowd, Meena pushing at her back.

 

“Send him to Google.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay, now, what should you say?”

 

“I really don't think we need to go over this again, John,” Sherlock huffed as he buttoned his coat.

 

“The last time you asked Molly out she thought you were coming out.  So, yeah, I think there’s some cause for concern.  You don’t want her thinking that you’re a necrophiliac or some such nonsense this time ‘round, do you?” John didn’t even look at him, focusing most of his concentration on typing up their latest case for the blog.  The sooner Sherlock left the sooner he could concentrate.  Besides, he didn’t need Sherlock looking over his shoulder while he typed pointing out grammatical errors or offering stylistic choices.  He especially didn’t need Sherlock to see that he was working on a post that would detail Sherlock’s saga of trying to ask Molly Hooper out on a date. 

 

The readers liked to see Sherlock’s humanity, his flaws. And what better way than a post dedicated to the fact that, while Sherlock could tell the difference between an absurd amount of tobacco ash, he couldn’t manage to properly ask someone out on a date.  Not just anyone but a woman who had been head over heels for him for years. John wanted it ready, so when Sherlock came back all he had to do was write the ending and post it.  The longer he waited, the higher the chance Sherlock would figure out what he was doing and ruin the fun.

 

Sherlock heaved a put upon sigh.  One would think he was being asked to do something particularly onerous like remember astronomy trivia.  It was fascinating that only planet Sherlock seemed to remember anything about was Pluto.  A planet that was not even considered a planet anymore.  “I am to say, ‘Molly, I find it charming that despite your numerous and impressive credentials, you can’t seem to understand when I am trying to escalate our relationship.  Therefore, allow me to say as bluntly as possible that I wish to take you out on a date in the interest of expanding our relationship from one of friendship to that of intimate partners.’  Happy?”

 

John gaped and blinked at Sherlock who was sitting huddled up on the chair with an indiscernible expression on his face.

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“Why?  Not good?”

 

“N-not good? Sherlock!  You can’t just insult her and- What you said-Intimate partn-You sound like a computer.  It’s all very not good, Sherlock.”

 

“Oh keep your jumper on, I’m not going to say that.”  Sherlock shot him a mischievous grin as he pulled out his mobile.  “I’m going to text her to let her know I’m coming over. Oh, buy more milk while you’re at the store today, we’re out.”

 

John scowled at his flat mate as he bounded out the door.  

 

“Your mad scientist bacteria experiments aren’t funny anymore!”  John shouted after him.

 

“I’m also going to need three liters of bleach,” Sherlock replied, his voice growing fainter.

 

“You can have _one_!”

 

Really, Molly was more than welcome to have him.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-key for beta-ing!
> 
> Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews. I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

It was a truth universally acknowledged that every pathologist in possession of a hangover must be in want of a bacon butty.

Molly was certainly in possession of a hangover and the only thing she wanted more than a bacon butty was to be curled up in her bed, hoping for her stomach to stop lurching and her head to stop aching. Instead she was sitting on her kitchen floor, listening to her microwave chirping, hoping that her latent telekinetic powers would kick in so her butty could be put together without her moving.

So far, no such luck.

"God, Toby, I'm too old for this," she whimpered as the housecat began rubbing himself against her side, hoping his mistress would repay his affection with some of the breakfast meat cooling in the microwave. "I'm never drinking again. Ever."

Molly was pretty certain that if he could, Toby would be giving her look of disbelief. Thankfully he was a cat and above such expressions.

After about five more minutes of attempting to put her sandwich together with her mind, Molly gave it up as a bad job. She was going to have to get up and put it together herself.

Damn it.

Ten minutes later, she had managed to not only construct a lopsided but serviceable butty but also eat half of it. The rest she would have to save for later in the day when she was less likely to vomit on the floor.

She retreated back to her bed (thankfully by walking though she was tempted to crawl) to contemplate whether or not to call in sick. On one hand the idea of holing up in her bed and feeling sorry for herself sounded absolutely fantastic. Maybe she would even go all out and listen to sad music and eat ice cream when her stomach finally stopped lurching. She never took sick days, no one would really complain if she did so now. On the other hand, a part of her was a bit embarrassed that she was wanted to call in ill because she was hungover. She was a thirty two year old member of the Royal College of Pathology, not a lad in his first year of university. She was, again, too old for this.

Molly rolled over and grabbed her mobile in order to read the morning news as she arranged a mental pros and cons list. She blinked at the messages on her phone. Molly rarely had texts on her phone when she woke up.  _Please, oh please, tell me I did not drunk text someone,_ she thought as she thumbed her security pattern.

Mike Stamford:  _Can't come to work. Davey is sick and Mark is in Leeds. Can you put plates 23 and 45 in the thermal cycler when you get in? Thanks!_

Sherlock Holmes:  _Need to speak to you about yesterday. Will be in lab at 1.- SH_

Molly grimaced. Suddenly calling off became a lot more complicated. She could easily deflect Mike's request to one of the techs, no problem. Sherlock on the other hand…

If she didn't show up to Barts, chances were Sherlock would just come to her flat. Molly wouldn't say that Sherlock had an open invitation to her flat; more like Sherlock didn't respect personal boundaries and showed up when and where he wanted. Molly wasn't entirely sure if it was the bacon butty not sitting well or the idea of Sherlock showing up to see her moping about the flat and deducing that not only did she stay home because of a hangover but that he was the reason of said hangover. Her feelings for him were no secret, but no need for him to know the extent of her distress. She had her pride.

Besides, after yesterday's horribly awkward conversation, she didn't want to make things any worse. Better to let him think that she was handling this well and was back to her typical, boring, dependable self.

Molly sighed. Might as well choke down some bicarb and paracetamol because she was heading to work. If the fates were kind, hopefully by the time he showed up she will have shaken off most of this hangover.

Thank God she only had paperwork to do. It was generally frowned upon to vomit on corpses.

* * *

Sherlock frowned as he entered the empty lab. It wasn't like Molly not to be here at

this time, especially considering he messaged her earlier. He threw his coat on her desk and scooped up her clipboard, glancing at the first page. She wasn't doing any post-mortems today. Typical of her. She liked to save her backed up paperwork for the end of the work week. Therefore she should be here somewhere. He rapidly flipped through the pages on her clipboard looking for clues. He stopped at the ripped notebook page stuck near the end of the stack.

He eased the page out to examine it more closely. Good heavens, who taught Molly penmanship? He squinted at the page trying to interpret what appeared to be either a list or abstract art. The handwritten notes she had left for him in the past had been untidy but apparently when she was writing for her own eyes it was nearly illegible. Forget encryption, Mycroft should hire Molly to transcribe state secrets. No one would ever be able to decipher it.

He peered closer at the list.  _Nod ao do or late? Whee to minimity deketirs?_ Was this even English?Perhaps Molly knew a language he wasn't familiar with. He immediately disregarded that idea. If her attempts at singing  _Molitva_  were anything to judge by, she lacked a talent for languages. Though her singing voice was pleasant enough for all it was untrained. Much better than John and his bathroom renditions of  _Magic Carpet Ride._

Sherlock looked up as the door to the lab opened. His eyebrows shot up at Molly's appearance. Though she had removed her other protective gear, she had forgotten to remove her plastic booties from her feet. Her face was completely bare of the little make up she normally wore.

Instead of her contacts, she had on her oversized glasses that he found, to his disgust, to be rather attractive. Despite the fact that her employee's badge had a, rather horrid, picture of Molly in her glasses, most people never saw her in them. Perhaps it was the fact that Molly never wore her glasses outside her flat that added an air of intimacy and privacy to her when she did. Even during the times he would seek succor at her flat when he was taking down Moriarty's network he only saw her wear them a handful of times. If she was wearing her glasses now that meant she tore a contact or her eyes were irritated. He frowned as he took in the rest of her. Heavy bags under her eyes spoke to a late night out. Unusual. Molly wasn't much for going out to pubs, preferring the intimacy of socializing at her friends' flats. Even when she did go out to socialize, it was never during the workweek.

"Sherlock!" Molly greeted in surprise. "You're early!"

Interesting. A bit of brown sauce lingered at the corner of her mouth. Brown sauce this early in the morning suggested a bacon sandwich. Molly never had bacon sandwiches for breakfast, preferring much lighter repasts, unless she over imbibed the night before and was battling a hangover. Ah. Bare face, irritated eyes, bags under her eyes, and a bacon sandwich. Molly went on quite a bender last night resulting in her current hangover.

The only question now was why. His mind raced through possibilities before dismissing the reason as trivial. He had more important things to focus his attention on at the moment. Perhaps later he'll deduce the reasoning behind Molly's inebriation.

Sherlock flashed his most charming grin he had in his arsenal. "Molly, just the person I was looking for."

"Did you look through my stuff?" Molly asked, eyes riveted to the clipboard in his hands.

The smile dropped off his face. Not the direction he wanted this conversation to take. Molly, and John come to think of it, was oddly possessive of items she thought to be 'hers.' "Yes, wanted to see if anything interesting came in."

Honestly, Sherlock did not expect what happened next. Usually when he looked through Molly's personal things she became flustered and protested weakly as if she were a kitten attempting to be a lion. She did not usually rush forward to rip whatever possession he had out of his hands as she did with the clipboard. Sherlock hissed involuntarily as the wood scratched his hands at her movement.

"You weren't supposed to see this! It's not ready yet," Molly fussed, completely ignoring Sherlock compulsively clenching his fists. He felt the need to make sure his hands were in complete working order after their brush with injury.

Assured of his hands' welfare, he looked up at Molly. "Molly, your penmanship would baffle a graphologist, let alone me. Rest assured I have no idea what," he peered at the paper, holding the clipboard down to prevent her from hiding it, "Zohni jeridty is."

"'Zohni jeridty?' What?" Molly furrowed her nose.

Sherlock pointed at where 'zohni jeridty'was on the page, underlined twice and circled numerous times. "That."

"That does  _not_ say 'zohni jeridty!'" Molly protested, disbelief in her voice. "It says 'John's sexuality!'" Molly's eyes widened as she realized what she just blurted it out.

Sherlock blinked at her slowly pinkening countenance before looking back at the paper. "That's a 's'? Not an 'i'?"

"Yes, it is."

"And that's a 'j'?"

"Obviously," Molly said through gritted teeth, her earlier embarrassment fading into annoyance as she defended her penmanship.

"How?" Sherlock supposed he could see where the apostrophe migrated above the s to form what he thought was an i but how her j became a z and sexuality became jeridty was beyond him.

"I have very stylish handwriting." Molly shoved the list under the rest of her papers.

"You should seriously consider making a permanent switch to print. Your joined-up writing is a crime."

"Oh, like yours is any better!" Molly muttered not quite under her breath as she brushed past him to her desk.

Sherlock magnanimously chose to ignore her slight as he turned to face her. "What sort of list has 'John's sexuality' on it? Underlined and circled, no less."

Molly averted her eyes as she wrung her hands. "It's just a list of-of things to talk to you about."

"Ah," Sherlock said. "You created a list of reasons why John and I would not make a good couple."

It was a little out of character for Molly to create such a list; she was usually so supportive of all, well perhaps not all if one took into account the noodle incident, of his endeavors. However, he couldn't find himself to be annoyed in the least. After all, he didn't want Molly to think he fancied John. Her believing he fancied John did not work in his favor at all.

"No!" Molly's eyes flew up to meet his as she protested vehemently. "I wouldn't do that! It's a list of things that I, it's not to dissuade," she took a deep breath before starting over. "It's a list of things you need to know and consider if you want to date John or well anyone. Like I've only ever heard him talk about dating women and- and I don't want you to get your hopes up only to find it out it won't ever happen."

Sherlock had to strain to hear the last sentence.

Her voice was a little stronger as she continued, "I've never heard him talk about fancying blokes. I just want to make sure you're okay with that before you ask him out. He may say no and you need to be, well, not okay with that because you probably won't be okay with it. But you need to be prepared that he may not want to date you and that there's really nothing you can do to change his mind. I hope he says yes and it works out but you should well," she threw her hands up in the air and shook her head, the way she so often did when her words did not come out the way she had hoped, "be prepared."

He nodded his head slowly. That certainly sounded more in line with the Molly who risked her job and life to shelter to him and could always be counted on. He was a bit surprised at the urge he had to pull her to him and hold her close. Only she would be big hearted enough to not only do her best to support a man she fancied to date another but make a list in order to help him succeed. An idea struck him. A list of things to know before dating someone? "What other things are on this list?"

"Oh! Um," Molly flipped to her list. "Just some more generic things. Like: what not to do on dates; who should pay and when; when to minimize deductions; things to make sure not to delete like anniversaries and birthdays. Nothing too out there; mostly helpful hints, guidelines, and the like. I figure if you're going to date, might as well do it right, yeah? I've dated a fair amount and some things are universal no-nos, regardless of who's on the date. Like talking about your exs the entire time." Molly let out a soft laugh and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Though that probably won't be a problem in your case, now would it?"

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. His mind was racing with the possibilities that came with this information. He was well aware of his lack of experience with almost all social situations, something he was more than comfortable with. But here Molly was offering explicit advice on how to be successful partner. It would not do to enter into a relationship with Molly only to have it fall apart because of his ignorance. Oh. This had potential.

"So, um, what did you want to talk about exactly?" Molly asked.

Sherlock blinked at her as she drew him back to the conversation. "What?"

"Your text said you wanted to talk to me?" Her voice was hesitant, as if concerned she got the message wrong.

"Oh, that. I wanted to take you up on your offer of help me with John."

Molly turned her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye. She looked eerily like a mother trying to decide whether or not to call her child out on a lie. "Sher-"

"I was thinking coffee," he cut her off with a wide grin. She had an annoying habit of seeing the subtext he thought he kept so carefully hidden. "But I am not sure coffee is the right thing for someone with an upset stomach. Perhaps a hot chocolate instead? Tea?"

Molly blinked owlishly at him. Perhaps the smile he used while shamming was a bit too much. "I-I'm a bit busy right now, Sherlock and I already took lunch."

"Tomorrow?" He toned down the smile to something more natural. She relaxed slightly at the expression. Sherlock felt a tinge of annoyance that his acting unnerved her so. He didn't like that his last line of defense was useless.

"Okay. Usual Costa?"

He nodded decisively. "I'll text you the time."

* * *

"Everything sorted?"

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, hands folded under his chin as he stared out into space.

"Sherlock?" John asked again, setting the groceries down on the table.

"Hmm?"

"I asked if everything was sorted." He glanced at Sherlock again. "With Molly?"

"No," Sherlock said absentmindedly.

John dropped the head of cabbage on the table. "What did you do?"

Sherlock hopped up from his chair to head into the kitchen. "Change of plans. I have a better idea."

"You don't want to date Molly anymore?" He asked slowly. It wasn't like Sherlock to give up so suddenly on something he wanted and up until this morning, he had wanted to date Molly.

"Of course I do. Don't be thick, John. I just have a better way of going about it."

"Oh, Jesus. Do I want to know?" God only knows what Sherlock Holmes would think was a better way to go about dating a girl. Probably take her to a crime scene and berate her for not seeing that clearly the victim's fringe meant that she was a horrible flutist.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, thinking it over. "You probably don't want to, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I'll need your assistance." He pawed around the shopping before pulling out the liter of bleach from the bag. "I asked for three."

"Well, you only got one."

Sherlock scowled at the container as he inspected it. "You got oxygen bleach."

"So?" John asked, moving the ears into crisper to make room for the milk.

"I need chlorine bleach."

"Shops are still open, you're welcome to get it yourself." John hip checked the refrigerator door. "Now, what is your brilliant plan?"

"For the bleach?"

John sighed before answering in exasperation, "For Molly."

"Ah, that! Molly has offered to assist me in my dating and relationship. She wants to make sure that our relationship is a success. She is worried I'll ruin things. Quite rightly, in retrospect as I have never been in a relationship before. I've decided to take her up on this offer." Sherlock gave his flat mate a self-satisfied smile.

"To give you dating advice?" John asked, drawing out the words, mulling them over. "You want her to tell you how to be a good boyfriend?"

"Yes! Exactly! Don't you see? No, of course you don't, don't answer that. Molly will give me advice on dating and relationship based on  _her_ experience. If she thinks I am using her advice to date you, she'll be even more open about what she wants in a boyfriend."

John stared at his flatmate. "I think you've gone round the bend, mate. Just tell her that she misunderstood and you want to take her out. You two will have a laugh and it'll be done!"

Sherlock looked off into the distance as if contemplating John's advice before shaking his head. "No, this will be much better."

"This is going to bite you in the arse, Sherlock."

"You know, I think I still have some sodium hypochlorite in the salt shaker, maybe I'll just make my own bleach," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he wandered towards his room, completely ignoring the doctor's warning.

"You have  _what_  in the salt shaker?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-key for beta-ing!
> 
>  
> 
> Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews. I hope you continue to enjoy the story! This is a short chapter but I thought it would be better to split the chapter to keep it from getting clunky. Things should pick up much more after this. Hopefully, I’ll be able to update faster also.

 

_“Last night I held Aladdin’s lamp and I so wished that I could stay before the thing could answer me, someone came and took the lamp away!  I looked all around, a lousy candle’s all I found!”_

 

Sherlock growled in annoyance as he buttoned up his shirt.  Again John was singing that blasted song.  At least he finally learned the rest of the lyrics and he didn’t have suffer through a course of  la la las. If Sherlock found himself humming the refrain one more time he would have to take drastic measures.  Possibly hide his condoms in the biscuit tin again.  If timed correctly, John won’t notice until Mrs. Hudson dropped off more biscuits, thus submitting him to a soliloquy on how happy she was the John was being responsible with his parade of girlfriends and how things were like in _her_ day.  Sherlock made a mental note to be out of the flat before Mrs. Hudson retold the story of how she lost her virginity.  Once was quite enough, thank you very much.  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t delete that uncomfortable teatime.  The only shining spot was that Mycroft and John had to suffer also.

 

“ _I like to dream!”_

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he banged on the door.  “If you _must_ subject the neighborhood to your caterwauling could you at least vary your repertoire?”

 

At last. Silence.  Why on earth would one want to sing in the shower was beyond him.  Especially when one sounded like a cat in heat.

 

Sherlock shrugged on his suit jacket when he heard John start up again. “ _She said she’d take me anywhere, she’d take me anywhere as long as she stays with me! Kiss, kiss Molly’s lips! Kiss, kiss Molly’s lips!”_

 

John never was one for subtly.  He was of the break down the door school of thought rather than the more delicate one of pick the lock.   It was with no regret that Sherlock flicked off the lights in the bathroom before leaving.  He deserved it after all.

* * *

 

 

Meena: _How’s it going?_

Molly took a sip of her flat white before answering.  She had arrived at their Costa well before the appointed time.  Nerves, probably, she thought.  That and the increased likelihood of getting a seat.  She hadn’t been this nervous around Sherlock in ages.  Once one live with someone on and off for several years, one tended to lose most nerves.  Molly took a deep, calming breath and tried to still her rapidly tapping foot.  It was truly ridiculous on how anxious she was feeling about this meeting.  It should be no different then giving any one of her other friends advice, she told herself. 

 

Except none of her other friends had the social skills of a five year old. 

 

Molly tapped out a reply: _Not here yet_

Well into her second drink, Molly realized that not only was it possible that she might actually have a caffeine problem but also that Sherlock was now ten minutes late.  Which wasn't uncommon for him.  She just hoped that he would remember to text this time if a case or experiment came up so she wasn’t stuck in the coffee shop alone, pretending to act casual and unconcerned as she waited for him.

 

Her phone buzzed.

 

Meena: _Emphasize timeliness._

Molly rolled her eyes.  Meena was enjoying this way too much.  She had already told Molly that she was coming over that night to hear all about it.

 

_Duly noted.  Get back to work!_

She shifted in her seat trying to get comfortable.  She was tempted to kick off her shoes and sit on her feet but there was something about putting her bare feet on a chair that was probably last cleaned when Thatcher was prime minister that gave her pause.

 

Molly caught sight of an older man passing her carrying a toastie on a tray out of the corner of her eye.  Molly followed him with her eyes as he made his way to a table.  Maybe she should get something to eat while she was waiting.  Saliva filled her mouth as she thought about the toastie.  She could almost taste the crisp toasted bread against her tongue as she bit into it.  The soft, hot cheese.  The salty ham.  She forgot to eat breakfast this morning in her rush to get out of the flat and now she was starting to feel the effects.   Oh yes, a toastie seemed like a brilliant idea right now.   As soon as Sherlock showed up she was going to indulge.

 

“Looks good doesn’t it?” came a voice from behind her.

 

Molly jumped.  She turned around, just barely avoiding upsetting the rest of her drink.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!”  The man grinned at her, his hazel eyes twinkling.   He gestured at the chair next to her where she had thrown her handbag and coat. “Is this seat taken?”

 

“No. I mean yes!  My friend is coming, he’s just late.”  Molly’s mind raced.  Did she want to chat with this man?  He looked nice. But Jim also looked nice.  Was he real nice or fake I’m going to kill your friends nice?  She just couldn’t tell anymore.  Though what were the chances?  Probably low.  What if she told him to leave and Sherlock never showed and she lost her chance with a potentially nice man?   

 

Molly grabbed her belonging and pulled them onto her lap.  “Have a seat. If you want, I mean.”

 

“Name’s Doug,” he said with a smile.

 

“Molly.”

* * *

 

 

Sherlock hopped out of his cab a block from his destination.  The traffic was obscene and there was no way he was going to stay in a cab when he could get there faster by walking.  Maybe there was something to be said about taking the tube when he decided to journey out to Clapham to visit Molly, especially at this time.  It was clearly Molly’s fault for living so far away and taking her days off not on the weekend like normal people but on Thursday and Friday,

 

Sherlock bounced on his toes at the street corner, waiting for the crosswalk signal to change.  Usually he disregarded such mundane pedestrian crossings but the road was too busy to attempt a mad dash.  Molly, not to mention John and Mrs. Hudson, would be quite cross if he was struck by a lorry.  Sometimes it was better to just humor society and follow the pedestrian signals. 

 

After a light that was red for far too long, he had to wonder if Mycroft maybe had something to do with it, Sherlock dashed across the street, nearly knocking people out of the way.  He was just a few shops from his goal.  He disliked tardiness without a valid reason.  Cases were valid reasons; experiments were valid reasons; idiotic drivers were not.

 

He slowed to a walk right before the Costa that has been designated as ‘theirs.’ It was a place that Molly had patroned quite frequently amount after abandoning the Starbucks several blocks away.  It made an ideal meeting place for her and one of Mycroft’s lackeys during the time he was dismantling Moriarty’s network.  It worked so nicely that he started using it as a meeting point for when he would drop back into London.  Molly’s building security, while no where near insurmountable, was quite annoying to deal with subtly, especially when he was tired.  It was easier to just meet Molly on her way home or to work to pick up her security fob to let him in.

 

He paused to straighten his coat before entering the shop.  No need to let Molly know that he was rushing.  Privately, he wasn’t entirely sure she would notice.  She, like John, had a habit of missing the obvious though, unlike John, she also had a tendency to see right through him at the most inopportune times.

 

He stopped in his tracks.  Molly was chatting, no _flirting,_ with some bloke.  His eyes narrowed as he took in her companion.  Thirty-nine years old.  Slightly hunched position suggests computer work.  A programmer by the marks on his palms.  He spent a lot of time clenching his fists when his code failed.  His shoes though were those commonly worn by hospital employees. A programmer in a hospital? How mind numbingly dull.

 

Molly looked up at his approach, her eyes lighting up as she smiled.  “Sherlock!”

 

“Traffic was a mess,” he greeted, completely ignoring Molly’s companion. “Ended up walking the last block instead of listening to the cabbie’s idea of music.”

 

Molly rolled her eyes at his sneer.  “You think most music composed after the 19th century is horrible.”

 

“I can’t help being right all the time,” he paused for a second.  “Even if I wanted to.”  The man had begun to shift uncomfortably the moment he appeared on the scene.  Perfect. “Oh, I didn’t notice your companion.”  Sherlock smiled insincerely at the man, his eyes cold. 

 

“Oh, I-I was just leaving.  Nice to uh meet you Molly.”  He gathered up his coat and scurried away.  Sherlock rolled his eyes.  No wonder the man was still single with a penchant for lesbian pornography if this was his tactic at courting.

 

No matter, it was exactly what he wanted to accomplish though he had to admit, he was hoping for a little more of a challenge. 

 

Sherlock flopped down in the chair, taking in Molly’s amused expression. 

 

“Good job scaring him away,” she remarked drily, finishing off her flat white.  A flat white this early in the morning meant she already had ristretto.  She was quite possibly the only person he knew that drank as much caffeine as he did. “I didn’t even get his number.”

 

“Problem?”

 

Molly shrugged, setting her empty mug down.  “Not really.  He seemed sort of bland to be honest.  But most biostatisticians I know are.  I think it’s all the software.”

 

“A biostatistician?  Not a programmer?”

 

“That’s what he said.  Works for King’s.”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance.  Always something.

 

“I was going to get you something to drink but since you have a tendency to be late…well, I didn’t.  By the way, don’t be late on dates.  Especially first ones, it’s not good for anyone involved.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Obvious.  If this was the type of advice she was going to be dispensing he might as well put a stop to the whole thing and ask her out again.  No use wasting his time.  

 

Molly sighed as she stood from her chair.

 

“Where are you going?”  Was she leaving?  He wasn’t that late and she didn’t seem too put out about the departure of the biostatistician.

 

“I’m hungry.  Want anything?”

 

“Just coffee. Here,” he said, shifting to pull his wallet out.  “Use my card.”

 

“I can get it,” she protested as he held out his card for her to grab

 

“Think of it as an apology for being late.”  He held her gaze. 

 

After a minute or so, Molly sighed. “Fine.  It’s best just to humor you sometimes, you want anything else?”

 

“No.”  He picked up his mobile to check his e-mail.  Hopefully one of his orders would have shipped by now, he needed another 40x objective. 

 

“Oh, did you already have breakfast?”

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

“Are you on a case?”

 

Sherlock looked up from his phone and blinked at her.  “Of course not.  I’m here, aren’t I?” If he had a case he would have cancelled.  Molly knew that, why was she asking?

 

“Working on an experiment?”  She persisted.

 

“Not presently.”  He was still waiting for an appropriate donor pancreas to continue his insulin experiment.

 

“Right, I’m getting you a Panini.”

 

“I’m not-“

 

“Don't complain or I’m throwing in a muffin for you to eat also,” she said over her shoulder as she made her way to the till.

 

Sherlock glowered at her ineffectively.  “You’re not my landlady,” he called after her.

 

Molly waved her hand to shush him as she placed her order.

 

He was starting to regret this decision.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to crown-and-key for beta-ing!
> 
> I am so sorry about the delay. This chapter did NOT want to be written in any acceptable manner. To those (both new and old!) that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc you guys are awesome! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think. Reviews and sharing your thoughts really do spur me into writing and I appreciate the time you guys take to write reviews. I hope the story lives up to your expectations.

 

"So, why me?" Molly asked after swallowing a bit of toastie. It was just as good as it looked on that bloke's plate. Definitely worth the wait.

"Pardon?" Sherlock looked up from where he was examining the components of his Panini. Molly rolled her eyes. He always faced his food as if it was a puzzle to be disassembled. She wasn't sure what his Panini did to deserve to be disarticulated so. After living with him off and on over the past few years, she was well aware of what he did and did not like and there was nothing on it that he didn't like.

"Why did you ask me for help with John? Why not someone else?"

"Who would I ask?" Sherlock questioned, still intent on deducing all of the mozzarella's secrets, leaning forward to take a loud sniff. Molly looked around, hoping that no one else noticed.

"You could talk to Greg about it. I'm sure he has plenty of knowledge. He's dating again, you know."

Sherlock waved his hand. "Obvious by the way he has started to darken his hair. He wishes to appear younger."

"I've noticed that." Molly nodded. "I don't know why he's doing it, though. His hair looked much more fetching the way it was. He can really pull off gray hair." Molly shifted under Sherlock's sudden sharp stare. "What? I'm not blind! Greg is quite the looker! Surely, you've noticed."

"Lestrade's attractiveness has never been a subject of much thought."

"Really?" Molly asked, leaning forward. "I'm pretty sure everyone is half in love with Greg Lestrade. I mean Mike's been with Mark for fifteen years and I still see him checking out Greg's bum every time he walks in."

Sherlock blinked. He looked a bit disturbed by this line of conversation. "I can't say I've paid too much attention to Mike's fascination with Lestrade's backside."

"He's got a nice bum. Greg, I mean. Not Mike. I've never noticed Mike's bum to be honest." She took another bite of her toastie. She quickly swallowed and said, "You should take a look next time you see him. You'll see what I mean."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open in revulsion. "I am  _not_ going to ogle Lestrade's backside the next time I see him."

Molly shrugged. "Your loss. I guess you're more inclined to look at John's. Oh come off it," she said, noticing his petulant expression. "What's the point of being friends if I can't occasionally take the mick out?"

"This is very unhelpful, Molly."

"Finish your lunch, then we'll chat."

* * *

This was the most disturbing conversation he had ever had with Molly, he thought as he examined his food. (The mozzarella was yellowish due to the grass the cow was fed. Slightly too salty. Not milky like good mozzarella should be. To be expected considering the source. ) Their short exchange on Christmas some years back was uncomfortable but not disturbing.

It was even more disturbing when he took into account that it made him wonder if Molly found his own backside attractive. Though that was not as disturbing as the thought that perhaps she preferred Lestrade's to his own. The idea of feeling even a slightest twinge of jealousy over Lestrade's backside was extremely disconcerting. After all, it was all just transport.

Though, he thought as Molly stretched her arms over her head revealing a bit of her hip and making her breasts more prominent, there is a possibility he may have been wrong in that respect.

"Okay, I have to know," Molly said suddenly, slumping out of her stretch. "After all these years of speculation and crap, what made you decide to make a move?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh come on! There has been talk about you two for ages! John's always denied it and you, well, you've never said anything one way or another so we all just assumed you were oblivious or some such. But here you are, wanting to date John and I want to know why. Was the last girlfriend one too many? Did he get hurt on a case recently and you realized the true depth of your feelings?" She asked, her tone tinged with mockery.

Sherlock sighed as he closed his eyes. He should have seen this coming. Molly, like many of her sex, was afflicted with the desire to know every little detail about her friends' romantic lives. How often was he bored close to tears in her flat as she asked and prodded her friends about their dates and love lives? She would pace around her flat, giggling and gasping into her mobile at her friend's flourishing or flailing romantic interludes.

Once, when he had to have his jaw wired shut for several weeks after a fistfight that went south, she even recounted one of Sissi's (or was it Shirley? Susan?) break ups to him in excruciatingly mind-numbing detail.

It was revenge on him for nearly killing the plant she received after her father's funeral by studying the effects of watering it with varying amounts of salt water. He managed to revive it and thought that her form of vengeance was disproportionate to the crime. He had no way to protest her inane chatter besides moaning and whimpering in displeasure as he clasped his hands over his ears in an ill-fated attempt at keeping her chatter at bay. She was ruthless, almost sadistic, in her revenge as she would pin his hands down and recall every single one of Sybil's (Sabrina? Shauna?) beau's transgressions. Though she did quite make up for it by concocting a variety of recipes for him to consume while injured so he wasn't regulated to just sweets.

"I won't bore you with the details-" Sherlock did his best to cover up his smirk at her disappointed face "-all I'll say is that it become apparent to me that if I did not pursue a relationship, my friendship with John would be in jeopardy. Since losing John is not an option, the only logical choice was to attempt a relationship."

There. Not only was it vague but it also had the bonus of actually being true. John had made it abundantly clear that if he didn't 'just ask her out for fuck's sake! I can't live with you like this! It's like living with a teenage Harry all over again!' that there would be a serious strain on their friendship due to 'excessive twat-iness.'

Molly's nose scrunched the way it did when she was extremely put out with him. "That's it? That's not romantic even by your standards."

"I never said it was," he said, trying to cover his annoyance. While it was true he really didn't  _do_ romance or romantic gestures, Sherlock had to admit he had hoped for something besides disdain.

"That's very true." Molly averted her gaze picked at the crust of her toastie. She worried her lip for a minute before continuing to speak. "Sherlock, you're not just doing this because it is convenient, right?"

"What do you mean?"

She rubbed her eyes with the palms as she spoke. "You said that you'll lose John's friendship if you don't date him. But you didn't say that you wanted to date John or that you loved him or anything like that. If you date John because it's convenient, chances are it'll end badly. Very badly. I know you don't like sentiment, Sherlock but-"

"It's not for the sake of convenience," Sherlock cut in. "This is actually quite inconvenient, having to seek advice; being unsure of what to do next; the possibility of unrequited…affections. The strain between John and I is merely the catalyst."

"Okay. Good. That's good." Molly's cheerful smile was strained. "Well then, do you have questions for me or should I just start rattling stuff off?"

"The latter. If I have questions, I'll interrupt."

"Oh, I'm sure," Molly said in a knowing voice. She took a deep breath as if steeling herself. "Okay, first off we need to see if John reciprocates. Because I'll tell you right now that if he doesn't, it may be hard to change his mind. Also, we don't want to put the cart before the horse."

Sherlock was a bit surprised at the change in Molly's attitude. She sounded more like a general explaining a military maneuver than St. Bartholomew's pathologist.

"Now if you were one of my girlfriends I would give you a lovely talk about how you're a prize and-"

"I'm not a prize?" Sherlock cut in, bemused.

Molly shot him a dirty look. "If I went down that road you would flounce out of here because you would think I was being condescending."

Sherlock straightened. "I do not  _flounce."_

"As I was saying," Molly ground out undaunted. "After the talk I would be realistic about your chances. I'm telling you right now that it doesn't look good. John has always been very adamant about not being gay. Which, I'm sorry to say I am inclined to agree if any of the talk around Barts is to be believed."

"What talk?"

"The usual. About how he's a bit of a skirt chaser and apparently very, very enthusiastic when it comes to, uh, pleasing a woman in bed. I think the last bit came from Nora. The one with the nose." Molly mimed having a large nose at Sherlock's look of confusion. "Though just because he's good in bed with women doesn't mean that he's not bisexual. Don't worry, together we'll be able to ferret it out without him knowing."

Sherlock stared at her. "You can do that?"

"Please, Sherlock. While you were off at Eton or Harrow-"

"St Paul's," Sherlock corrected.

"-Being posh and all, this is what I did during secondary and sixth form, figuring out if people liked my friends. Just bring him about the lab more often and we'll figure it out. I'll also see if I can get Mike to talk about their St. Bart's days-"

"That'll be tedious, you'll never get him to shut up."

Molly huffed. "Like I don't have experience with people who don't shut up."

Sherlock smirked.

"Prat," she muttered as she picked up her mug to finish her drink off. "Now, I don't want to get your hopes up but do you have any ideas on what you want to do if he does say yes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That is the reason I am asking for advice Molly."

"You-you don't have any ideas? At  _all?"_

"Not really," Sherlock said slowly.

All of his brainstorming when it came to dates was done with Molly in mind. He was loath to offer up his few acceptable date ideas up.

Sherlock had already discarded the idea of a dinner and a film. Not only was it cliché and dull, movies rarely held his attention. His enjoyment of movies increased exponentially when he could discuss it with someone or point out mistakes, something frowned upon by cinema goers (and John).

A museum had a possibility, depending upon the museum. He enjoyed some art and natural history was usually a good show, as long as the exhibits were up to date. Nothing was more annoying than an incomplete exhibit.

His favorite at the moment was the idea of a ghost walk in the East End. Though he scoffed at the idea of ghosts, most preternatural experiences can easily be debunked by science, Molly was fascinated by the supernatural. Based on the sentimental notes scribbled on the inside of the covers of the few books she owned regarding spiritual beings, it was an interest passed down by her mother and a way Molly had of remembering her. Despite his own distaste of the supernatural some of the supposed hauntings were based on very real unsolved murders, something he always enjoyed. Many of the tour guides were aspiring or former thespians and Sherlock always had a fondness for drama and theater. It would be a nice balance between something he and Molly enjoyed. Walking around the city he loved with Molly would just be an added bonus.

"Well, I'm not going to plan your dates for you, Sherlock. I'll tell you if the idea isn't any good or I'll, like, talk it through with you but that's about it."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed. No need to have her plan a date for them at the moment, he wanted to show her that he can do this bit without her help. Though he had to admit that he was unsure of what constituted a date. His Internet search was unhelpful in providing concrete parameters. Apparently there were as many definitions and nuances to the term 'date' as there were religions. It was truly amazing, the amount of time average people devoted to sentiment and obtaining a sexual partner. Exhausting almost. "What would you consider a date?"

Molly blinked at him.

"From what I've researched, people have different ideas as to what is or is not a date. I would like your opinion," Sherlock elaborated after Molly continued to stare at him.

"Oh. Well. That's a bit tricky. Let's see," Molly muttered as she thought. "Well, first off both parties have to  _know_ it's a date. I went to a film when I was in sixth form with a group of friends and the bloke I sat next to thought it was a date. Told everyone we were dating for the next two weeks." Molly shot him a look of remembered disbelief, as if after all these years that event still baffled her. "So both people definitely want to be there. I like it when the date is set up a day or two in advance. A lot of last minute dates tend to make me think that the guy had nothing better to do. Though that's more in the early part of a relationship. Hanging out at the last minute is one thing but a date is supposed to be more…special, I guess? If that make any sense?"

Sherlock nodded. He supposed there was a certain amount of logic to that. Perhaps. He'd have to mull it over.

"Everyone is going to think of dates a little differently so I guess the most important parts of a date is that both people know it's a date and that both people want to be there because they want, or at least  _think_ they want, to be in a relationship with each other. Wait, I don't know if that last part made sense," Molly trailed off.

"You are saying that there should be a reciprocated feelings, or the possibility of reciprocated feelings, of sentiment from both people involved, correct?"

"Yes," Molly agreed. "Exactly."

"And if it's not reciprocated?"

Molly looked at the mug nestled between her hands as she quietly replied, "Then you have to be grateful for the friendship that you have because it's better than nothing. And-and you tell yourself that you want him to be happy, even if that means he's with someone else." She pursed her lips and gave him a weak smile. "Let's continue, okay?"

* * *

Molly kicked off her shoes and tossed her keys on the side table before collapsing on her sofa with a groan. Toby trotted into the room, trilling as he did, happy that she had returned.

It had gone well, all in all. She thought she doled out some good advice and Sherlock was remarkably attentive to it.

The day could have been counted as a win if it wasn't for the little hiccup of Sherlock asking what to do if someone doesn't want to date you. That hit a little too close to home for her liking. Hopefully, she didn't make her feelings too obvious.

Oh, who was she kidding? Sherlock could tell the state of someone's marriage from his or her jewelry, there was no way he would have missed her blatant pining. Molly knew that getting over Sherlock Holmes would not be easy. If it was, she would have moved on  _ages_ ago. The pathologist had just hoped that she would be able to do so with some grace. Maybe once she safely midwifed Sherlock and John's relationship she would be able to move on. Nothing like seeing the man she loved (because no way was she this hung up on just a crush) in a happy relationship with his roommate to push her into put her own feelings behind her.

She let out a little huff as Toby jumped on her stomach and immediately began to knead her shirt. Molly rubbed his ear as he purred. "Maybe he didn't notice, Toby. John did say he can be spectacularly ignorant." Toby leaned into her palm, content with her affection.

Nice to know that Toby agreed with her.

* * *

"Have you ever slept with or dated a man?"

John rolled onto his back and blinked blearily at Sherlock. This had to be the fever talking. "What?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Have you ever slept with or dated a man? Specifically during your training at Barts?"

Maybe it wasn't the fever. "No, I've never fancied blokes. Why?"

"That's inconvenient. You're going to have to return my flirtations than."

What? "What?"

"Molly is withholding advice because she believes it is putting the cart before the horse. Next time we are around Molly, you need to pretend to be open to my advances and the idea of a homosexual relationship, understand?"

Well, it certainly wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever done for Sherlock. "So you want me to flirt with you?"

"Yes but subtly, John. Molly isn't an idiot; she'll be suspicious if you suddenly moon over me like you do any woman in a skirt suit."

"Do you even know how to recognize flirting, Sherlock?" Flashbacks of Molly trying to gain an oblivious Sherlock's attention, mixed in with Moriarty and Irene Adler attempting to do the same ran rampant in his head.

"Of course, I do."

John raised his eyebrows. Oh, that just made his headache worse. Maybe he shouldn't do that. "Do you really?"

"Yes," Sherlock ground out, turning to leave.

"Sherlock. How you doin'?" John slurred as he attempted to mimic an American accent.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm fine, why?"

"Flirting, Sherlock." If Sherlock couldn't even recognize a parody of flirtation, he was going to need lessons.

"Why any woman wants to date you is beyond me."

"The feeling is mutual," John called out after him.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so terribly sorry about the delay. I won’t go into details but I will honestly try not to let it be so long again. We're in the final stretch of this story! Only two, possibly three, chapters are left.
> 
>  
> 
> To those (both new and old!) that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc you guys are awesome! Seriously amazing. I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think. Reviews and sharing your thoughts really do spur me into writing (I know it may not seem like it because of how long it takes to update but it truly does. I re-read y’all’s reviews constantly.) I appreciate the time you guys take to write reviews. I hope you guys continue to enjoy the story, I enjoyed writing it. (Well, when it cooperated, I did).
> 
>  
> 
> Much thanks to Lexie for pinch beta-ing and for helping to get this chapter rolling!

 

 

* * *

 

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: MFHooper@bartshealth.nhs.uk

Subject: Convo w/ Mike

 

Sherlock,

 

Talked to Mike today.  He doesn’t remember John ever dating or having interest in blokes. Sorry!  But as a consolation prize, I am attaching a picture of John c. 1999 when he was at Barts.  Mike has a picture of his whole class in his office, I think they’re at a footie match but I’m not sure… Thought you’d enjoy the neon headband and Burberry hat he’s sporting.

 

-Molly

PS: How are things going on your end?

PPS: Mitch has given me a floater every day this week. I’m thinking about quitting and opening a bakery, thoughts?

* * *

 

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: MFHooper@bartshealth.nhs.uk

Subject: Re: Re: Convo w/ Mike

 

Sherlock,

 

If John’s ill, you need to take care of him!  Show him you care and are concerned!  Now get him some lemsip, tea, tissues, etc!  It’s a good way to get in his good graces (and after breeding maggots in his bedroom, I assure you, you are not in them.  Next time, just borrow my forensic entomology book, honestly!)

 

Also, the 90s were a dark time for us all.  You’ve already discovered the pictures of my uni fashion disasters. (Yes, I know you rifled through my photo albums.  Prat.)

 

-Molly

PS: I am COMPLETELY serious!  I would come home smelling of baked goods instead of decomp, I wouldn’t have to testify in court, no more worrying about the first person to be eaten in a zombie apocalypse… (You know how much I hate zombies.)

 

Also, I’d be an AMAZING baker! Hell, I AM an amazing baker!  (Box mixes count, right?) I’m ready to leave my life of filleting corpses and go make pastries and things.  I’ll call it Danishstalker! Or Post Meringue! Or Code Brownie!  Though that one may be a bit rude…

* * *

 

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: MFHooper@bartshealth.nhs.uk

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Convo w/ Mike

 

Sherlock,

 

Okay for that comment on my baking? NO CAKES FOR YOU. You are NOT allowed in The Pastrologist’s Bake Shop!!  I was going to have you help with quality control but not anymore!

 

Arsehole.

 

-Molly

 

PS:  Keep me updated on things with John.

PPS: Think anyone would get the reference if I named it Hooper’s Store? 

PPPS: Did you even watchSesame Street when you were little?

PPPPS: Thank you for not taking the mick out on me re: my irrational zombie fear for once

 

* * *

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: MFHooper@bartshealth.nhs.uk

Subject: Re: Cat Picture

 

I hate you!!!   THAT was very very much an undead person, NOT A CAT! I can never trust a subject line from you again! EVER!

 

* * *

 

“Here.”

 

John rolled over at the sound of Sherlock loudly placing a tray on his bedside table. “What’s this?”

 

“Suitably weak tea, lozenges, lemsip, and some rather questionable broth from Speedy’s. Consider yourself nursed.”  Sherlock turned to leave, tapping on his phone.  “If Molly asks, I was appropriately concerned and helpful.  You found my behavior to be unusual but pleasant.”

 

“I’ll make sure to say so.  If you bring me some water.”  His throat felt like someone hacked at it with a knife and one cup of tea wasn’t going to cut it.   If Sherlock was looking for a favorable report, John was determined to milk this for all it was worth.

 

Sherlock sighed in annoyance.  “Fine.”

 

“And another blanket,” John croaked after Sherlock.

 

“Don’t push it.”

* * *

 

**Meena: How did your date go with Steve last night?**

**You: Started off all right before going completely to pot**

**Meena: :-( what happened????**

**You: We met @ Primrose. ordered and talked, etc. It’s going ok & then Sherlock texts**

**Meena: Of course he does! Did you tell him?**

**You: that I was going? No but it’s Sherlock my hair tie or something could have given me away. So he’s won’t stop texting.**

**You: I can’t turn off my mobile b/c I’m on call so it keeps dinging**

**Meena: What did he want?**

**You: I’m getting embarrassed and Steve is getting really weird.**

**You: Sherlock wanted a pancreas**

**You: then he says “who is texting the mother of my children on our first date?”**

**You: WHO SAYS THAT???  ON THE FIRST DATE!! OR AT ALL??**

**Meena: lol omggg you’re taking the piss right? RIGHT?**

**You: NO**

**You: Moral of the story? DON’T DATE PEOPLE FROM YOUR GYM. Now I can’t go back!**

**Too awkward.**

**Meena: How often did you go before?**

**You: I went five times this year already!**

**Meena: That would be very impressive, IF IT WASN’T OCTOBER.**

**You: Baby steps, Meena. Baby steps**

* * *

 

Molly bent over Sherlock, almost leaning against his back as she pretended to fiddle with his microscope.  “Compliment him,” she whispered.

 

Sherlock suppressed a shudder at the feeling of her breath brushing over his ear.  “Now?”

 

“Yes, let him know you’re thinking about him.”  She straightened and moved away.

 

He could almost still feel where she had touched him.

 

“John,” Sherlock said glancing over at the good doctor.  John had his head on the table where he was taking a kip.  Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  That was probably not a good idea, considering the multitude of pathogens that graced the lab.

 

John lifted his head and blinked blearily at Sherlock. “Wha?” he slurred.

 

_Still under the effects of the cough medicine._

“Wake up, I will be done shortly and I need your mind to be clear.”  There.  He let John know that he was aware of his actions and that his mind was of value.  Compliment successful.

 

“Okay?” John replied.

 

Sherlock’s eyes darted over to Molly for approval from where she was standing behind John.

 

Molly stared at him in disbelief, her eyes wide.  Her hands were up and fluttering wildly as she silently mouthed a stream of indiscernible words.

 

Apparently that wasn’t adequate.

 

“I mean,” Sherlock paused, unsure of what to say. 

 

Molly grabbed at the jumper under her lab coat and pulled at it repeatedly.

 

“-your jumper…”  He looked at John’s green jumper. Besides a loose thread on the sleeve where caught it on a nail, it was completely unremarkable. Why would Molly want him to talk about his jumper?

 

Molly bounced up and down behind John and pointed at her eyes.

 

“…eyes?”

 

Judging by the incredulous look on his pathologist’s face before she pinched the bridge of her nose, that was not right.  _Oh._

“Your jumper brings out your eyes.” The words rushed out of his mouth.

 

John blinked at him.  “What are-“

 

 Sherlock gave him a sharp kick under the table, eliciting a soft grunt from John.

 

“Thank you.  I’m glad you noticed?” He shrugged slightly with a roll of his eyes as he finished.

 

Well, he didn’t have John around for his dramatic talents.

 

Molly gave him brilliant smile and quick thumbs up.

 

* * *

 

**John: How much longer are we keeping this up?**

**You: As long as it’s necessary.**

**John: You said that 2 weeks ago!**

**You: It’s still necessary.**

**John: Your flirting is terrible.**

**You: Insults won’t make this faster.**

**John: Where are you?**

**John: Sherlock?**

**John: Sherlock?**

**John: I’m donating Billy.**

**John: SHERLOCK?!**

* * *

“You didn’t have to come,” Molly croaked. 

 

Sherlock ignored her, emptying his shopping at the foot of the bed.

 

“’S just a cold.”

 

“In the six years I have known you, you have only taken two weeks off for health issues and one week of that was due to an appendectomy.” He deftly unscrewed the cough syrup and poured a dose onto a spoon.  “If you are ill enough to call off of work, you are quite ill.  Take this.”

 

Molly scrunched her nose before reluctantly allowing Sherlock to spoon-feed her the vile medicine. 

 

Sherlock snorted in amusement as Molly’s face contorted at the taste.  He handed her a glass of water.  “Here.  I also brought some vaporub and a can of chicken soup if you’re hungry.”

 

Molly turned away from Sherlock to cough into the crook of her elbow.  “Ugh, not food,” she said when she was done.  “I’ll take the vaporub.”

 

Sherlock handed her the small blue jar.

 

Molly pawed at the teal lid as she attempted to unscrew it.  She clenched her fist, testing her grip before trying again.

 

“Need help?”

 

The brunette sighed dramatically and handed the jar over.  “Yes.”

 

Sherlock unscrewed the lid with enough ease to make Molly green with envy.

 

“You didn’t have to come,” she said again, dipping her hand into the pomade and clumsily applying it to her chest.

 

Sherlock didn’t answer, his eyes focused on where she was rubbing mentholated cream.

 

Molly leaned back into her pillows with a sigh.   Finally, some oxygen!

 

Sherlock silently handed her a tissue to wipe her hands.  “You told me,” he began carefully, “that taking care of someone when they are unwell shows care and concern.”

 

A rush of warmth, unrelated to her cold rushed through her.  Sherlock never expressed his feelings in a blunt manner.  Knowing Sherlock was like constantly taking a literature class.  You had to read between the lines.  Extrapolate from suggestions and inferences. Almost everything had a deeper meaning that she had to find.  Rarely was a cigar just a cigar.

 

Molly knew that she counted to Sherlock, that she was one of the few people he allowed himself to care about.  

 

But it was nice to be reminded every once in a while.

 

She placed her hand on his and gave it the tightest squeeze she could manage.  “Thank you.”

* * *

_Molly-_

_On a case._

_I gave you some cough syrup at 3:00 after you woke up coughing.  Do not take any more until at least 7:00_

_Securing your hair in a messy bun is quite flattering._

_Feel better._

_-SH_

_PS: You have been less than diligent about maintaining the sock index I created for you, I took the liberty of re-organizing it._

* * *

 

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: MFHooper@bartshealth.nhs.uk

Subject: Relationship Homework

 

It’s the little things that make all the difference and show that you care.

 

Your homework is to do something nice for John at least once a week, preferably more than that.  It doesn’t have to be a big romantic gesture (in fact, I’d avoid those at this level.  It seems like it would be nice but 9 times out of 10 it’s just awkward for all involved).

 

Make it small but thoughtful.  Some ideas:

 

Have dinner ready when he gets home (takeaway counts) every once in awhile.

 

 Do the shopping.  What do you have against buying milk?  John never shuts up about it.  Maybe you should just buy him a cow to keep in the basement.

 

Make him a cuppa (DO NOT DRUG IT). 

 

Tell him where you are going, don’t go swanning off. Or at least send a text.

 

He works PRN at a surgery, right?  Ask him how his day went and  _actually listen._   If he has a problem, help him work it out.

 

Control your inner grammarian and literature critic. Don’t mock his newest blog entry. 

 

Thank him.

 

Let him get his way every once in awhile without a fuss.

 

Label any biohazardous material.  (You REALLY should do that anyway.)

 

You are the smartest and most observant man, well person, I know.  Give it time and you’ll easily pick up what sort of things he appreciates.  It doesn’t have to be everyday, so stop making your stink face.

 

The best part is it is great practice for relationships and something you can continue do.

 

-Molly

 

PS: Thank you for taking care of me this weekend.

 

PPS: Can you explain the sock index to me again?  I don’t understand why my cupcake socks are next to my stockings and my thigh highs were hidden behind my fuzzy green sleep socks…

* * *

 

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: MFHooper@bartshealth.nhs.uk

Subject: READ ME

 

DO NOT ACTUALLY BUY HIM A COW.  IT WAS A JOKE. DO. NOT. BUY. A. COW.

 

 

* * *

 

Molly was moving very slowly today.

 

Not just in running tests and creating slides but she was slow in sitting down and standing up, in walking and bending over.

 

 Lower back pain. Obvious.  He immediately disregarded some of the top causes of back pain, she was too young for osteoarthritis and spinal stenosis.  Contrarily, she was too old for it to be scoliosis. She would have been diagnosed back in primary school.  A fracture would be causing her more pain than just the discomfort she was displaying .  Same with a herniated disc. Probably not from over usage, it was her first day back after her illness. Unlikely that it would manifest after several days of resting. Possibly an injury, though how had she managed to hurt herself…?

 

The detective observed her as she gingerly bent over to slip the lab covers over her shoes.  The pathologist tucked her hair under her hairnet and slipped into the adjoining wet lab, all without giving him any information to the cause of her back pain.

 

Sherlock sighed and returned his attention to the freshly donated pancreas.  Motorcyclists are always so accommodating in their love of eschewing helmet laws.  Unfortunately for the ill, this young man was dead on arrival and his organs were useless for anything besides research. 

 

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure and this pancreas was a beauty. Well, once one got over the fact that it looked like raw chicken, it was beautiful.  Just what he needed for his experiment.

 

“Enjoying yourself?”

 

Molly was leaning on the laminate lab table and giving him a weak smile.

 

“Very much so.  It’s just what I needed.”

 

 “Well, thank the donorcycle.” Molly let out a soft sigh and pushed off the table with a slight groan.

 

“Molly, stop.”

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock stood up, grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around.

 

“Sherlock! What are you-“

 

“Put your hands on your shoulders.”

 

“Wait, what you going to-“

 

Sherlock grabbed her around the waist and bent backwards, lifting her off the floor. 

 

“Oh my God!”  Molly exclaimed as her entire back cracked with a series of pops.

 

He slowly lowered her back to the floor.  “Better?” Sherlock whispered in her ear, his arms still around her.  He smirked as he felt the minute shiver that ran through her body.

 

“Y-yes.  That-that felt amazing.  Thank you.”

 

“Welcome.”  He let her go with a smirk.

 

One nice thing a week down, one more to go.

 

* * *

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: Watsonjh@milnet.uk.net

Subject: ENOUGH ALREADY

 

This has gone on long enough.  It’s been going on for almost a month!  It’s time for you to come clean to Molly or so help me I will do it for you.   You have a week!

 

I mean it!

 

* * *

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: Watsonjh@milnet.uk.net

Subject: Re: Re: ENOUGH ALREADY

 

No it’s not just because I ‘have my eye’ on Mary. You are crossing into the realm of the absurd with this and if you keep it up you’re either going to piss off Molly or lose her. Or both!

 

Seriously.

 

* * *

To: S.Holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk

From: Watsonjh@milnet.uk.net

Subject: Re: Re: Re: ENOUGH ALREADY

 

Sod off.

* * *

 

“Hi, John! Nice weather for ducks today, isn’t it?”

 

John glanced over at Molly who bounced into the staff lounge, holding a coffee cup carrier.

 

“I hear it’s supposed to rain for the next week.  Let me take that for you.”  John took the carrier from Molly and placed it on a much abused wooden table.  “This is a lot of coffee. Night shift?”

 

Molly chuckled. “No, no.  I got a text from Sharisha begging me to come back from lunch early because you two showed up.  Thought I’d pick you two up something from Caffe Nero.  You take yours black, correct?”

 

“Uh, yes.  Thanks!”

 

Molly shrugged in acknowledgment as she took a sip of her coffee. “Where’s your partner in crime solving?”

 

“Mr. Cheekbones is off annoying some poor soul.  Not sure why, don’t truly care at the mo’.”

 

“Well, I have a post mortem to get too.  If either of you need me, you’ll know where I’ll be.”

 

“Thanks, Molly! By the way, sorry for giving you my cold.”

 

Molly waved her hand as if to bat the apology out of the air.  “Don’t worry about it.  It’s been going around so I was probably going to get it anyway.”  She swirled her cup around, mixing the contents.  “So, uh, Mrs. Hudson give in and nurse you?”

 

John closed his eyes and let out a soft, hopefully unnoticed, sigh.  This had better be the last time he had to do this for Sherlock.  The detective promised him that this would be the final week that he needed John to play along.  “No, surprisingly Sherlock took care of me.”

 

“Did he?”

 

“Yeah, uh, he did.  It was nice.  Odd but nice.”

 

Molly nodded to herself, a faraway look in her eyes.  “Good for you.”

 

“Yeah.  He brought me some medicine, en extra blanket, and stuff and just sort of left me alone.” Was he smiling enough?  He hoped so.   Though judging by the queer look on Molly’s face, he might be smiling too much.

 

“He left you alone?”

 

John nodded slowly.  “He said to ‘consider myself nursed’ and left.  Probably thought it was boring or beneath him.  I mean, it’s not like Sherlock is known for his tact and bedside manner!”

 

“He isn’t, is he?”

 

John had a sinking feeling that Molly wasn’t expecting a reply or joking.

 

She shook her head and gave him a bright, strained smile.  “I have a corpseicle waiting for me and the longer I wait, the worse she’s going to smell.  Ta!”  Molly turned on her heel and nearly ran out of the staff lounge.

 

“Ta…” John said weakly to the closing door.   He looked down at his coffee and back at the door.  “Why do I get the feeling I just cocked this up?” he asked the empty lab.

* * *

Possible reasons for Sherlock acting stranger than usual-Physiological

1) He’s relapsed- _ask John!_

2) Brain damage from jumping off of Barts that I’m just now noticing.  _MBI highly likely._

3) Brain damage from chemical fumes _. Also, likely.  He never uses safety gear_.

4) Undiagnosed medical condition

            -Too many concussions?  _possible_

            -brain tumor?  _Also, possible but not probable_

            -early onset Alzheimer’s?  _Maybe. A little too early I think.  Read up on early AD etiology!_

 

Possible reasons for Sherlock acting stranger than usual- Non physiological

1) An experiment of some sort?   _But what? Comparative reactions?_

 _2_ ) Stress _. Maybe?  What is he stressed over?_

3) He’s not ready to come out.   _Eh, probably doesn’t care what others think but who knows._

4) He hates my advice and is doing it b/c he thinks he has to  _***Most likely reason. talk to Sherlock about this IMMEDIATELY***_

4) He doesn’t want a relationship anymore.   _He would probably just go back to before tho._

5) He feels more comfortable with me than John???   _Nah, John IS his best friend.  Maybe b/c he doesn’t want to date me I’m a safe bet?_

6) He’s perfecting his methods on me before using them on John?   _He can be a bit of a perfectionist but he knows how I feel about him.  He’s never deliberately cruel to me…_

7) IS HE BEING DELIBERATELY CRUEL TO ME??? _Don’t be paranoid.  He wouldn’t do that to you.  He_ wouldn’t.  _He’ll tease you about zombies and Toby but he’d never hurt you like this for fun._

8) He wants me instead of John.  _Don’t be stupid, Molly.  If he wanted you he only had to say a sentence and you’d be in his arms like the lovesick bint you are._

9) John doesn’t want him and I’m second choice.  _I think I should stop with the list…_

* * *

_“_ You’ve been acting strange, lately.”

 

Molly winced the moment the words came out of her mouth.  Well done, always the soul of tact. 

 

Sherlock gave her a curious look. “Acting strange how?”

 

“Well. You-you’ve been kind of…” Molly picked at her Belgian chocolate brownie, sending small clouds of cocoa powder into the air.  She regretted that she opened her mouth.  Should have just left things alone.

 

“Molly,” Sherlock said, a slight warning in his voice telling her to just spit it out.

 

She shoved a piece of brownie in her mouth to buy her some time.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back in his wooden chair.  His eyes started to drift over the morning crowd filling the coffee shop.

 

She took a deep breath.  “I’ve noticed that you appear to be more, I don’t know, enthusiastic? Keen, maybe? About your interactions with me as opposed to John.”

 

Sherlock leaned forward, setting his elbows on the glossy table and folding his hands together.  There was a gleam of…something in his eye.  Molly wasn’t entirely sure what it was but judging by the intent gaze, she definitely had his attention.

 

“Go on.”

 

“I’m just noticing that your interactions with John seem to be more stilted and awkward of late.  That you are also spending more time with me, which is fine,” Molly said hurriedly. “I like spending time with you, that’s not a problem.  At all. I’m just wondering if perhaps.” She looked down at her brownie again, swirling a design in the crumbs.  “I’m wondering if you’ve changed your mind about being in a relationship or you feel like you have to follow my advice.  You don’t! If you want to do things your way, that’s great.  More than great, really.  It’s more authentic, more you.  And if you think you’re not ready that’s okay, we can wait and try again sometime.”

 

She glanced up at him and saw an emotion that she could have sworn was disappointment flit over his face before returning to a more neutral bemused look.

 

“I still wish to have a relationship and your advice so far has been adequate.”

 

Molly squinted at him.  “But then-No.  It’s none of my business.  But you are feeling okay, right?  No dizziness? Emotional instability? Forgetfulness? Headaches?”

 

“Are you asking me if I have brain damage?”  His incredulous tone made Molly feel like an idiot.

 

She could feel the blood rush to her face.  “Maybe,” she squeaked out.

 

Sherlock burst into laughter, drawing the attention of the table of hipsters in the corner. 

 

Shouldn’t hipsters be eschewing chain coffee shops?

 

“Fine! Have yourself a nice laugh.”  She covered her face with her hands.  Subtlety, thy name is not Molly.

 

Sherlock pulled her hands off her face, still chuckling. “I don’t have any brain damage.”

 

“That you know of,” Molly said under her breath.  “Let me know if there is anything you want me to do to help you get ready for this.  I want this to succeed.”  Mostly because she couldn’t imagine the fallout if they failed.

 

“So do I,” Sherlock said intently.

* * *

_Memo to self: create a Lovestruck profile._

_And a Plenty of Fish one._

_Also eHarmony._

_Maybe get another cat.  Or a ferret. Are those even legal?_

 

_Don't ferrets smell?_

* * *

 

“We should go on a date. No.  Two dates.”

 

            “Why?”  Molly carefully noted the abnormalities that were present on her slide before switching it out.

 

            “To make sure I have everything figured out.  We’ll go on a date and you will critique my actions.”

 

            Molly looked over him as he fiddled with his pipetter.  She made a mental note to send it out for recalibration.  He always forgot to reset the volume to max, weakening the spring. “Why the second one?”

 

            “To see if I got it right,” Sherlock answered immediately. “Repeat the experiment, see if there are different results.  This is something that will help me polish my skills.”

 

            She leaned back in her chair and tapped her lip as she thought about it.  No reason to say no, really.  It could be nice.  It also made a bit of sense. Point out bits he should work on. A dry run could be helpful.  Suddenly all the tales John had told about Sherlock rushed back to her.  Or it could be disastrous.  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.  How about you plan one and I plan the other? That’ll give you the best of both worlds.  Oh, maybe you should plan the date as if you were taking John out!  We could do something you think John would like.  We could go to a footie match.  I’m sure someone is playing this weekend.”

 

            She tried to hold back a grimace at the idea of going to a football game.  It’s not that she didn’t like football.  On the contrary, she enjoyed playing it on occasion with her friends, who didn’t mind that she wasn’t very good.  She was a loyal Cobblers fan despite the fact that they haven’t won anything significant in her lifetime.

 

            The crowds were what she hated.  The stadiums here were nearly ten times bigger than the ones she was used to, growing up in Northamptonshire.  Molly hated crowds, she’ll stick to watching matches on the telly, thank you very much.

           

            “No!”  Sherlock protested.  He straightened and said quietly, “No.  It would skew the results, having you do something that John would like.  If you did not enjoy yourself it would be harder to discern whether it was due to my actions or the activity.”

 

            “I suppose you’re right,” Molly said with a shrug, graciously ignoring Sherlock’s muttered ‘Of course I am.’  “I’ll plan the first one then.  Try not to go on a case this weekend. Or at least text me if you do.”

 

            “This weekend, it is.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my pancreas.  Afternoon!”  He winked at her before closing the door.

 

            Molly rolled her eyes.  “Drama queen.”

 

 


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those (both new and old!) that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc you guys are awesome! Seriously amazing. I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think. Reviews and sharing your thoughts really do spur me into writing (I know it may not seem like it because of how long it takes to update but it truly does. I re-read y'all's reviews constantly.) I appreciate the time you guys take to write reviews. I hope you guys continue to enjoy the story, I enjoyed writing it. (Well, when it cooperated, I did).
> 
> Author's Notes: I've altered some real life things, such as when events take place and what time places are open. If you know where the alterations are, all I'll say is I know and I plead creative license.
> 
> Also, this isn't beta-ed at all so any mistakes or roughness is all mine. I've looked it over several times but I'm sure I missed something. I wanted to get this up before Series 3 began (honestly I wanted to finish before Series 3 began) and I figured Christmas would be perfect. Merry Christmas, ever

Molly: BLACK OR BROWN?

Meena: What? Black or brown what?

Molly: SHOES. BLACK OR BROWN SHOES.

Meena: Um… Brown?

Molly: I THINK BLACK WOULD GO BETTER.

Meena: Okay...

Meena: Is this about your 'date' with Sherlock?

Molly: MAYBE

Meena: Are you freaking out?

Molly: NO

Meena: Are you sure? You're in all caps

Molly: NO

Meena: No, you aren't sure or No you aren't freaking out?

Molly: I'M NOT SURE.

Molly: I CAN'T FIND MY OTHER BLACK SHOE.

Molly: MAYBE I'LL WEAR MY GRAY BOOTS.

Meena: Do I need to get Sam and come over there?

Molly: NO. I'M GOOD.

Meena: Want to hear about a thought I had recently?

Molly: SURE.

Meena: You know those cheap harlequins we used to read during exams?

Molly: YES.

Meena: The women always says "I'm coming" or "I'm going to come." I think they should say "I'm here!" When they come.

Molly:...I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

Meena: Something to consider the next time you have sex.

Molly: I think your hijab is too tight.

Meena: I'm home. No hijab.

Molly: Damage from long term too tight hijab wearing, then.

Meena: Possibly.

Meena: Are you still freaking out?

Molly: No. I'm still on the I'm coming/I'm here bit.

Meena: Mission accomplished!

* * *

 

Two trousers, four shirts, two jumpers, three cardigans and one half clothed dance around the bedroom after slipping into her skinny jeans without any difficulties Molly declared herself ready for her 'date.'

Well, as ready as she could be.

If matching pants and bra won't make her feel ready for anything, nothing will.

She'd chosen her outfit with care. Not too fancy, not too casual. Her outfit fit well, her shoes were comfortable, her make-up, natural. Her ponytail was high and the right amount of messy. Molly aimed for I-put-effort-into-this-faux-date-but-not-so-much-it's-awkward-and-uncomfortable.

It's a lot to convey in one outfit but if anyone could figure it out, it's Sherlock.

Everything was going-

Shit, was that a pulled thread on her cardigan?

* * *

 

"Pick a piece of paper!"

Molly held out a rather impressively hideous plastic punch bowl (origin: mid-1980s. Family heirloom[in the loosest sense of the definition] or purchased from a charity shop. Slight veneer of dust implicates disuse. Most likely charity shop. Brown dried residue on the bottom. Possibly brown sauce, most likely molasses. Ah, it was shoved in the back of a cabinet and wasn't worth the concern when there was a molasses spill.) containing several folded pieces of paper.

"Why?"

"Because what you pick is what our date will be!"

Sherlock bent over slightly to more closely examine them. Paper appeared to be commonplace and of low quality, most likely printed off at Bart's. (It would have to have been printed off at Bart's. Molly hasn't had a printer since she tried and failed to set up her wireless one two years ago. Now it served as a perch for Toby to lounge on. ) The papers were folded twice in order to further obscure the writing. Very carefully folded to appear uniform, judging by the two pieces that had to be refolded to match the others.

"You can deduce all you want but I had Sam cut and fold them. I didn't want you to read something from the paper, I want it to be by chance." Molly had a proud smile on her face at her explanation.

A smile tugged at his lips. Only Molly would go to such lengths to conceal something so insignificant from him.

"In that case." Sherlock reached in, swirled his hand around and grabbed a scrap. His eyebrows shot up as he read it aloud. "Victorian Magic Show, Wilton's?"

"Uh-uh," Molly tutted, placing the punch bowl in the sink and turning on the tap when he went to reach for another piece. "I'll tell you during the date post mortem. Don't want you to change your mind!" Molly pulled on her outerwear and headed for the door. She whirled around suddenly, almost causing Sherlock to crash into her. "I don't mean a literal post mortem. Just an after date dissection and critique. Not that you'll do anything wrong, I'm sure you'll be fab but-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed Molly by her shoulders to turn her around. "I quite understand what you meant, Molly."

* * *

 

Considering Wilton's was one of the oldest surviving music halls in the world, its entrance was rather unimpressive. Tucked between two houses, the paint on the façade was flaked off in many places and the paint on the wooden doors had not fared any better. Catering to the working class of Whitechapel in its multiple manifestations, Wilton's was off the beaten path, hidden in an alley.

Sherlock took in the large iron lantern hanging above the door, a beacon to draw people in.

"So…here we are." Molly's voice was inordinately high and cheery, showcasing the nerves she tried desperately to hide. "I've only been here once before. Sam begged a bunch of us to come here back in uni to see this interpretive dance troupe. I have no idea what I was supposed to interpret from their performance but it was certainly pretty. We can take a tour after if you want; see all the crooks and crannies. Crooks and crannies? No, sorry, nooks, nooks and crannies."

"The show starts in 15 minutes, perhaps we should go in and find our seats." Molly babbled when nervous, obvious given all the years they've known each other. Better to cut her off earlier rather than later. Not only was it easier but it eased the uncomfortable silence that followed when Molly realized what she was doing and abruptly stopped speaking.

The hall was not very memorable, considering the other theaters and halls Sherlock had visited around London and the world. Despite the recent and ongoing renovations, the original artless structure still peeked through. Like a parvenu, Wilton's never seemed entirely able to conceal its humble past no matter how much varnish and paint was layered on.

Rows of freestanding chairs with threadbare cushions were neatly lined in front of the curtained stage. Their seats were on the edge of the center aisle. Not the best seats in the house but quite adequate.

"What about this makes it Victorian?" Sherlock glared at the surly teenage boy furiously texting in the next row. 17 years old. Public school. Parents divorced, Father attempting to win favor with the magic show. Poor show, old man. Boy would obviously prefer spending time doing something creative. Pottery most likely, considering the way he picked under his nails in the few moments he tore his attention from his mobile. Relationship would be better served taking an art class together. Doesn't excuse the fact that the teenager will spend the entire show texting, judging by the way his thumb is tapping on his smart phone. Oh, what's this? Glaring at Daddy? Bad blood between them and the son is still holding onto his grudge.

Hopefully any row will wait until after the show. Molly would not appreciate their date being interrupted by family drama. Though he could stand to see the drama play out.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you paying attention?"

"No. Not at all," Sherlock admitted. No use lying to her. Molly had a nasty habit of challenging him in repeating what she just said if she thought his attention had wandered. Usually he could bluff his way through it without Molly being none the wiser but judging by the smug look on her face, she already knew he wasn't listening to her. To her credit, she resisted sighing and scolding him like John tends to do.

"I was saying that I'm not sure why it's Victorian. I think she's going to be doing magic tricks from Victorian times but who knows? She may come out all kitted up in a bustle and like uh," Molly mimicked opening up an umbrella, obviously thinking about what word she wants to say, "parasol! A parasol. She's supposed to be very good. I googled her and she has some sort of grand goombah reward or membership."

"Inner Magic Circle with Gold Star?" Sherlock offered absentmindedly. Hmm. Father is completely oblivious to the brewing storm next to him. Who is the father texting? He's trying to be subtle about it. Failing miserably of course. Doesn't want the son to know, probably? Ooh, keeping things from junior? This won't end well, especially since the boy seems itching for a fight.

"Maybe." Molly shrugged. "It was something peculiar. Wait. What's the Inner Magic whatever?"

"Stage magic organization," he said, still watching the father-son duo out of the corner of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Sherlock tore his eyes from the previous row. No matter. Father was texting his new lover. How disgustingly common. Father cheats on wife, son sides with his mother. Boring. "I learned magic and illusion for a bit. Comes in quite handy at times. Especially when I pick Lestrade's pocket."

Molly's shoulders slumped. "Of course you would have studied magic. Damn it."

"What?" Sherlock furrowed his brow. Why would this suddenly be an issue?

"I had hoped that deducing how the magic tricks were done would keep you from being bored. Since you already know the tricks, I guess this is a wash. Bollocks." The last word was muttered under her breath.

"Every magician do tricks differently and have their own acts. I don't mind staying. Might pick up on a few new techniques."

"Are you sure?"

"Molly," he said with a warning look. He was always sure. She knew that.

"'Course. We can always leave at intermission if it's rubbis-"

"Sod this!" Oh apparently Mt. St. Junior has finally erupted. "If you're just going to text your secretary the entire time, I'm gone. The world won't end if you don't work for 10 bloody minutes!" The teenage boy stood up and stalked out of the theater, leaving his stunned father staring after him.

Secretary? Not lover? Damn. A work obsession is a slightly less common reason for divorce but no less boring.

The older man grabbed his coat and stumbled after his wayward offspring, mumbling apologies as he went.

The lights dimmed, signaling the imminent start of the show, quieting the sea of murmurs that accompanied the drama.

Sherlock leaned towards Molly. "It was obvious what was about to happen, you could tell by the-"

"Shh," Molly shushed him, cutting off his explanation. "The shows about to begin."

Sherlock let out a small huff of annoyance. How could he show off if Molly won't let him?

The clack of heels hitting the floorboards demanded his attendance. A middle aged woman in a dark non descript skirt suit came on stage, running her fingers through her loose hair.

"It feels a little anticlimactic now," Molly whispered as the performer began her introduction.

"Shh," Sherlock scolded, a smile tugging his lips. "The show's begun."

* * *

 

Molly gratefully sank down onto the spartan wooden chair. She thought it was a brilliant idea to walk to the restaurant after the show. It wasn't too far, the weather was cooperating, and Sherlock hated all modes of public transit. It seemed like a perfect idea. And honestly, the walk was just lovely. Their conversation was light, the silences comfortable, and the streets relatively uncrowded, considering.

She just forgot how fast she had to walk to keep up with Sherlock's loping strides.

"Besides the rather annoying attempts at interaction on magician's part, it wasn't a bad performance."

"Illusionist, Sherlock. Not magician," Molly corrected with a smile. It was a recurring theme throughout the night. Apparently she also accepted being called a stage performer but not a magician.

"Of course," Sherlock ceded, his voice thick with false contrition. "An illusionist."

"See any tricks you haven't seen before?" Molly took a sip of her wine and leaned back in her chair.

"A few, though they were relatively easy to deduce. Only about a minute to deduce how it was done, though the finale did take me three to come to a conclusion."

"What sort of magic tricks do you know?" Molly pulled her coat back on. The pale stone walls and ceilings of the restaurant kept it a touch too cool for her liking. Though, she supposes that she would rather have a crypt be too cold than too warm. Reduce the smells as much as possible.

"Mostly the basics." Sherlock leaned over and produced a coin from behind her ear and handed it to her. " Magicians are rather reluctant to teach and share secrets of the trade. Also they didn't like me telling others how they accomplished their tricks."

Molly turned the coin over in her hand. "A Euro?" A one cent Euro coin too, not exactly useful.

"Only coin I had on hand." Sherlock shrugged slightly, turning his attention to the short menu. "Any recommendations?"

"I've never been here before," Molly admitted. "Though I have my eye on that fruit crumble." Café Below was one of those places she always intended to go, (how often can one eat in a millennium old crypt?) but never managed to.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. "Oh! Mince pies!"

Molly hid her smile with a sip of her water. Sherlock never seemed very keen on food in general but according to Mrs. Hudson every Christmastime Sherlock lived off of her mince pies and cookies.

"Is that all you're planning on ordering?"

Sherlock pursued his lips in thought. "I suppose I'll also get the leek soup."

"A very balanced diet."

After debating the relative merits of the fish pie and pumpkin curry, they fell into their usual dinner conversational pattern of letting the conversation ebb and flow naturally. It was a lot like being at her flat; watching the telly and fending off a begging Toby.

Molly playful jabbed her fork at Sherlock's hand as he stole another bite of her meal. "This is my dinner, not yours!"

"I'm helping ensure that you can have your-" Sherlock cut himself off, jerking his head to scan the dining room.

Her chest clenched suddenly in terror, hundred of scenarios running through her head from a choking patron to a lone wolf member of Moriarty's network seeking retribution. "What's wrong?"

"Someone took a picture of us. I saw the flash out of the corner of my eye, probably a mobile. Most likely that group of teenagers in the corner trying to look nonchalant."

Molly let out a relieved chuckle. "It's probably just some of your fans."

Sherlock looked at her in horror. "Fans?"

"Surely John has told you!"

"I thought he was being facetious!"

Molly shook her head emphatically. "Oh no, you're quite popular. Especially on the Internet. John and I have both liked your Facebook fan page."

Sherlock's eyes grew wider as she spoke. "My…fan page?"

"Oh yes! They're quite active. There's Sightings Saturday, where people talk about seeing you about. Flailing Friday where people overall just praise you. Watson Wednesday, that's dedicated to John. Theory Thursday and so on. They're very dedicated."

"You and John  _liked_ this page?" Sherlock hissed.

"Of course we did. We're keeping an eye on them for you. They're mostly seem to be a group of rather lovely people. Couple of loonies but that's to be expected from any group. They're collecting gifts for your birthday this year. Can I help open some of them? I love presents."

"What sort of loonies?" Sherlock questioned warily, completely ignoring her request.

"Well, I know for a fact that at least one of them has a tattoo of you." Molly picked up her phone to scrolling through her app, trying to find the picture. "Rest assured, it's not me. I don't have any tattoos. Probably never will. Ah, here it is."

John had nearly wet himself with laughter when he first saw it, months ago. The fact that someone 'actually wanted that smarmy git's face permanently on their body is ridiculous. They wouldn't feel that way if he kept  _them_ up, scratching away at his violin.' Ignoring the fact that it was a tattoo of someone she knew, it wasn't very well done. It was a passable likeness of Sherlock, true. Molly wasn't sure if it was because the artist wasn't very good or because it was on placed on (a rather scrawny) arm, distorting the proportions of his face.

Sherlock quietly took a large bite of his mince pie, his now scrunched face resembling a shar pei's.

Molly just took a large bite of her curry. It wasn't often Sherlock was stunned into silence. Best to just savor these moments.

* * *

 

"Is there a reason you'll never get a tattoo?" Sherlock asked after Molly's crumble arrived, the remnants of her curry long since cleared away.

Molly shrugged her shoulders. She was good that way, not minding his conversational leaps. "Never thought of or seen anything I would want on me. Maybe one day I will but I'm so changeable that I doubt it." Sherlock suppressed a shiver as she continued. "I'd probably hate it within a year. Plus I have this thing about pain."

"And that is?"

"I don't like it." Molly took a large bite of her crumble as if to emphasize her opinion.

"The pain isn't that bad. Depends mostly on where the tattoo is."

Molly coughed, a piece of her crumble stuck in her throat. "Wait. Do  _you_ have a tattoo?"

Sherlock smirked, checking his phone for any new texts. He's overdue for a new case from Lestrade; hopefully one will come in soon.

"You don't," Molly continued. "I've seen you practically starkers and I've never seen one."

Sherlock shrugged, scrolling through his e-mail. A case about a bank fraud? BO-ring. Best to stay quiet and not give Molly any details, it'd ruin the game.

* * *

 

"You're lying." They were standing in front of the restaurant, attempting to hail a cab. Molly couldn't let this topic go. After the fall she had seen him almost entirely naked while tending to his injuries, there was no way he could have hid a tattoo from her…unless. No. There is no way Sherlock Holmes would have a tattoo on his penis. Most likely no way. Probably no way. She glanced down. Molly wasn't sure know why she did, it's not like she would be able to tell through his trousers.

"If you say so." Sherlock propelled her forward, a hand on her lower back, towards the recently arrived cab.

Molly slipped into the cab, giving the overly smiley cabbie a quiet hello along with her address. The car accelerated the moment Sherlock closed the door, sending them against the back of the seat. Before they could regain their composure, the cabbie made a terrifying right turn. Molly couldn't contain her gasp as the headlights of the oncoming traffic flooded the cab.

"Mind slowing down?" Sherlock snapped at the driver as Molly was thrown against him.

"Can't slow down. Cruising," the cabbie replied, still smiling slightly manically.

Molly leaned forward to see the driver sitting cross-legged in his seat. She grasped Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock," she whispered urgently. "He's not using the pedals.  _He's not using the pedals."_

"We'll get out here," Sherlock said as the car screeched around another turn.

Honestly it was rather impressive that he could go so fast in London.

"No, no, no. You wanted to go to Clapham and Clapham is where I'll take you," the cabbie insisted, toggling the cruise control to speed up in order to make the changing light.

"Here is fine really." Molly cringed as another cab laid on its horn, causing the cabbie to swear angrily.

"No one in this city can drive," he complained, running a hand through his thinning blond hair.

"Including you," Sherlock retorted.

"Look at this guy, he's been on my arse since I've picked you two up. What is his problem?" The cabbie ignored Sherlock, continuing his rant. "Bollocks!" The cabbie slammed on his breaks at the red traffic light, the fact that he had pedals to use flabbergasted Molly.

"Out, get out." Sherlock opened the door, throwing several notes at the cabbie. Molly scrambled for the handle to her door, not even looking to make sure that there weren't any cars coming up behind her.

"Oi, oi!" The cabbie shouted, getting out of the car. He jogged after them as they rushed to the pavement. Sherlock grabbed Molly's hand and raced down the street.

Molly's lungs burned as they sprinted hand and hand, weaving in and out of foot traffic. Pain shot up her leg as the heel of her shoe caught on a crack, twisting her ankle. Her sensible boots were not made for running away from mad cabbies. Sherlock caught her as she stumbled, keeping her from introducing her face to the pavement.

"I think we lost him," Molly gasped, holding onto Sherlock's coat. Honestly, they probably lost him two minutes after they started running.

Sherlock helped her to a nearby bench, collapsing next to her.

She tentatively unzipped her boots. It was probably a mild sprain but that didn't stop it from hurting like hell. "That was the worst cabbie I think I've ever had!" Molly tenderly rubbed her ankle.

Sherlock shrugged. "I've had worse."

Molly looked at him for a moment before bursting out into peals of laughter. Sherlock chuckled softly before fully joining in the laughter, stretching to rest his arm on the back of bench.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are seeing true, my dears. I've updated (again!)
> 
> To those (both new and old!) that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc you guys are awesome! Seriously amazing. I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think.
> 
> Reviews and sharing your thoughts really do spur me into writing (I know it may not seem like it because of how long it takes to update but it truly does. I re-read y'all's reviews constantly.) I smile every time I get an e-mail notification (when FFN sends out notifications…). I appreciate the time you guys take to write reviews. So please do so if you can.

 

* * *

Also, this isn't beta-ed at all so any mistakes or roughness is all mine. I've looked it over several times but I'm sure I missed something.

"How'd it go?" John didn't even deign to look up from his crossword when the door opened, signaling Sherlock's arrival.

"You liked my fan page?"

This did cause him to look up. "What? The Facebook one?" How in the hell did he find out about that? Sherlock didn't have Facebook or any internet presence besides his website.

Sherlock collapsed into his chair. His eyes were narrow slits of ice as he glared at John. "Is there more than one?"

John cleared his throat, averting his eyes from his flat mate and back to the crossword puzzle. Sherlock had the look that John had only seen during impromptu visits from Mycroft. Best not tell him about the other fan communities lurking on the Internet. "No, no, of course not. What brought this up?"

"Molly told me during dinner. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I  _did_ tell you," John defended himself. He just happened to conveniently be in his mind palace at the time and unaware of the world.

Sherlock let out a snort of disbelief.

John shrugged. It was true and he knew Sherlock could see it on his face. The doctor may have some tricks from hiding things from his annoyingly brilliant flat mate but most of the time Sherlock saw right through him. Seriously, what does his yawn have to do with what he wants for dinner?

Sherlock's slumped into his chair, letting his head rest against the back of the chair. "The date was fine. Fairly standard from what I've read. Saw a show, ate dinner, escaped a mad cabbie-"

John's eyebrows rose at that. " _Another_ mad cabbie?" Sherlock may tease him about being kidnapped (which was only once, thank you very much. He went willingly with Mycroft's and Irene's minions) but Sherlock had a serious cabbie problem. For a man so observant, he really did not know anything about the people who chauffeured him around.

Sherlock waved his hand languidly. "Not important. Where was I? Oh, escorted her home, using my usual cab company, had some tea and came back. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"I didn't ask what you did, I asked how it went. Did you enjoy it? Are you and Molly still speaking to each other? Did you cause yet  _another_ divorce?"

Poor couple hadn't even seen superstorm Sherlock coming or else they probably would not have asked him to take their photo. And Sherlock would never have revealed that the bloke was shagging the gardener behind his husband's back.

"That only happened once," Sherlock defended. "Well, once in the time you've known me. To answer your question, it was diverting enough. Dinner was more enjoyable than sitting silent at the show. Though Molly has no problems with talking to her shows, apparently she frowns on talking in the theater. I picked up a few tricks that may be useful in the future."

"So not as interesting as a triple murder?"

Sherlock's head shot up, his body tense with anticipation. "Why? Has that happened? Did Lestrade phone?"

"No, I was just using it as an example."

Sherlock sunk back down into his chair. "Ugh. It's been too long since I've had a case-"

"You had one yesterday!"

"-I can feel my brain dying from misuse."

Oh  _honestly_. "Why don't you plan what you're going to do with Molly for your date? That'll keep you occupied."

"No it won't. I already know what I'm doing."

"You do?"

Sherlock hopped out of the chair and stretched, sending shivers down John's back as Sherlock cracked his back and neck. Like nails on a chalkboard. "Of course, I do. It's not exactly brain surgery, John."

John just shook his head and went back to his crossword. If it wasn't for that fact that it would probably end up with Molly getting hurt, he would have wished for Sherlock to fail spectacularly at this. He could use a mouthful of humble pie.

A hand fell on his shoulder, startling John. "Number 9 down is 'wiseacre'"

"Oi!" He  _hated_  when people told him the answers to the crossword he was working on. Something that Sherlock knew and therefore tried to do as frequently as possible.

Tosser.

* * *

Molly carefully balanced her flannel wrapped bag of frozen peas on her ankle. It was a mild sprain, most likely fixed by some rest and painkillers but no harm in being careful.

Besides, who knows how old these peas are? Probably not suitable for consumption. Molly peeked at the expiration date on the bag. Oof, September of 2011. Well, at least it's getting some use now.

Molly fluffed the pillow under her ankle and settled herself into bed. Tomorrow was her day off and she was treating herself to a nice long lie in. Bless Toby and his love of sleep that keeps him from waking her at obscenely early hours for a feeding.

Molly reached over and grabbed her mobile off the side table. Best make sure her alarm is off now and her phone is on silent. She didn't want any calls from her boss asking her to come in nor did she want to be bombarded with questions from Sam and Meena. If those two were cats, their curiosity would have killed them long ago. They can wait until they and few of their other mates go out to dinner on Saturday. The interrogation was going to happen, even she knew better than to try and stop it, but it was going to happen on her terms and at one time.

The light on her mobile was flashing, indicating that she had a text. Sweet Jesus, Meena and Sam wasted absolutely no time. Molly tapped her message app open.

Sherlock:  _Noon Friday. 221b. Dress comfortably and weather appropriate. I'll provide trousers-SH_

"What?" What the hell were they doing that Sherlock felt he had to provide her appropriate trousers? Obviously something outside. A hike? Molly immediately dismissed the idea. She had never met a man less suited for a serene nature hike.

Molly:  _You're getting me trousers? Why?-Mx_

Sherlock:  _For our next outing and no I'm not going to tell you in advanced. -SH_

Molly:  _okay….-Mx_

She sank into the pillows, tucking her duvet under her chin. There's a chance that she  _may_  be in over her head.

* * *

His experience in staying at Molly's flat after faking his death proved to be quite helpful when it came to dating Molly. Besides learning some of her likes (perfumes: mostly spicy and floral) and dislikes (dogs dressed as humans and chickpeas), Sherlock had also filed away more precise information regarding Molly's size. Her shapeless clothes concealed her figure, making it difficult to accurately deduce her measurements. According to his research (mostly lad's mags), buying a woman the wrong size of clothing, it didn't matter if it was too small or too large, can lead to an uncomfortable interaction at best and an emotional outburst at worst.

Thankfully the required trousers were very forgiving in sizing. Sherlock took the trousers out of the parcel, examining it carefully. Satisfactory quality and size, indeed. He ripped the tags off the breeches, tossing them over his shoulder, and threw the garment on the bed. Molly should be here soon enough.

"So, I'm off to meet Mike. I'll make sure not to return until-What the hell are you wearing?" John paused in the middle of putting on his coat to stare at his flat mate.

Sherlock glanced down the hall. "What do you mean?"

"You're wearing a tartan shirt!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Honestly, he  _did_ own casual clothes. He wasn't Mycroft. "It would be inappropriate to wear a suit to where I'm going. It'll just get ruined. Besides. I hate polos."

John shook his head rapidly, as if to clear it. "Right. Well, I'll make myself scare, I suppose. Good luck with…whatever you're doing."

"Unnecessary, but appreciated I suppose."

* * *

Molly bounced on her feet, waiting to be let into 221. It was a touch too chilly, as the weather began to flirt in earnest with winter. Maybe she should have worn a coat instead of just a puffer vest and a zip up.

Well, that's the price she paid for trying to be fashionable.

The door swung open at the same time she started debating whether or not she should knock again (the doorbell was apparently disabled with a note taped above it saying, 'if your case is interesting enough, you'll find a way to get my attention.') when the door swung open. "Ah. Right on time, excellent. C'mon then." Sherlock spun on his heel and jogged back up the steps.

Molly followed him at a more leisurely pace. Mostly because it gave her time to admire Sherlock's bum in his jeans. Just because he was gay doesn't mean she can't admire. "So what's this about trousers?" she asked when she stepped into the sitting room.

Sherlock shrugged on a short vaguely military styled jacket. "They're on my bed. Our appointment is in half an hour. We should leave in the next ten minutes since traffic will be horrific." He peeked out the front window. "Wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft started another war."

"Okay… now  _why_  did you buy me trousers?"

"Oh that." Sherlock whirled around to face her with a grin. "You don't have anything appropriate. The jeans you own are too tight to be comfortable and likely to rub in, let's say uncomfortable, places. Any suitable trousers you have are what you consider to be fancy dress trousers. You'd be reluctant to wear them despite the fact that you rarely have the occasion to wear them. It seemed more expedient and practical to just obtain appropriate trousers for you."

"Well," Molly started awkwardly, "I'll just go put them on then."

Sherlock's room was not how she imagined it would be. Molly figured it would be an extension of the madness that was the rest of 221b. In contrast it was rather clean, the mess confined to the one bookshelf where busts, books, and beakers were tossed together haphazardly.

The gray garment lay innocently on the bed, a dark blot on the duvet. She fingered the soft stretchy material. "And here I always figured that the first piece of clothing a bloke bought me would be more sexy and lace and less tracksuit and cottony."

Molly kicked off her shoes and quickly changed, keeping an eye on the door. Sherlock probably wouldn't barge in on her but he did have problems with boundaries sometimes. All right, a lot of times. Okay, he always had problems with boundaries.

She made her way back out, jeans thrown over her shoulder. "I'm ready."

"Good, the cab's here. You can just leave your jeans here, we'll be back later to eat."

"You going to tell me what we're doing?" Molly asked. The trousers were more form fitting than not and rather comfortable. However the snugness of the trousers made her trainer clad feet look disproportionately large.

"Oh you'll see." Sherlock opened the door with a flourish, motioning her to head downstairs.

Oh she has a bad feeling about this.

* * *

Molly did a rather good job on organizing their previous date, all things considering. She put thought and effort into choosing the events and venues. After hearing about the other dating possibilities she picked out, such as an exhibit on life and death in Pompeii, it was clear that she carefully selected each one keeping in mind his need to keep his brain stimulated.

When his mind was stimulated and used to its fullest ability, he can ignore his body's needs and conserve his energy, delegating even the simplest tasks to others, usually John. However, when his mind was not sufficiently challenged, he often turned to physical activity to make up the difference. Boxing, singlesticks, fencing, all helped keep his mind and body sufficiently occupied to stop him from going mad with idleness.

Which lead him to today's activities.

"Sherlock!" Molly called. Sherlock turned around to see Molly jogging to catch up. In his excitement, he forgot to wait for Molly to exit the cab before he started down the mews. Damn, not a good start. He halted immediately, allowing her to come abreast.

"Our destination is right up ahead." Sherlock couldn't see it yet but he certainly could smell it. The pleasant smell of earthy wood chips and sweet hay mixed with the not so pleasant aroma of sweat and defecation. Sherlock inhaled deeply, a smile creeping on his face. It smelled of childhood and the precious afternoons his father would spend with him, and only him. Afternoons of riding double, urging Daddy to make the horse go  _just_ a little bit faster. Afternoons where his father was an admiral hunting down the dread pirate Sea Shark Holmes or Sea Shark Holmes' rival, Red Bellied Robin. Afternoons cut short by a ruptured cerebral artery. An artery that shoved an adolescent Mycroft into the role as parent, while their mother spiraled into a depression that took months for her to crawl out of. Sherlock shook his head, clearing away the unwanted memories.

"Oh my God." Molly stared at the white washed building. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." Sherlock stepped aside, allowing a skewbald to pass by into the stable. "Are you ready?"

Molly just nodded, her eyes wide in childlike excitement. "I've never ridden before."

"Good. You'll have no bad habits to break."

* * *

Sherlock either had Mycroft pull strings (unlikely) or someone at the stables owed him a favor (more likely). Either way, the requirement for an employee to accompany them about the park was waved. Sherlock assured her that with he was more than capable of teaching her the basics of riding.

"The horses here are extremely docile, almost boringly so. You'd have to try to make them misbehave. When you improve, I'll introduce to horses with more spirit. They're far more interesting. For now," Sherlock checked the tape on the back of the bay's saddle, "Guinness should be sufficient."

Molly looked at the brown horse nervously. It was huge. Ridiculously so. The top of its head was over a foot above hers. Molly knew that horses were big but standing next to it, her excitement was quickly being replaced with anxiety. Sherlock actually wanted her to ride that thing? Did he know that it could think and move all on its own without her direction?

"Maybe I should just pet Guinness and call it a day?"

Sherlock stroked Guinness's neck and leading him around the paddock, ignoring her all the while. "Horses can sense anxiety, so act comfortable and relaxed around him. And no, you can't just pet him; you're going to ride him. Come over here and trust me."

Molly took a deep breath and walked over as confidently as she could. "I'm confident. I'm relaxed. I can do this. I am confident."

Sherlock chuckled as she finally walked up beside him. "First off, you're going to mount him. Put your left foot," Sherlock tapped the stirrup, "in here and you'll stand up, grab the saddle, swinging your other leg over and into the other stirrup."

"Right." Molly stuck her foot in the stirrup and tried to stand. And failed. "I think it's the boots." The stable provided riding boots that made her trousers; excuse herjodhpurs not trousers, look less ridiculous.

"No it's not. Try again."

Molly tried again, clawing at the saddle but unable to get past the critical point. The horse was just too damn high. Didn't they make smaller horses? How the hell do people get on this thing? Despite all her activity in the morgue, she still lacked the upper body strength to hoist herself up. "Isn't there supposed to be like a huge knob for me to hold onto?"

Molly turned bright red when Sherlock let out a snort of laughter. "Not that type of knob. You know what I meant."

"The uh, knob," Again with the smartarse laugh! "you're talking about is a western pommel. English saddles, like this one, are styled differently. Now, do it again, this time let's try to actually get on the horse."

Molly gritted her teeth and stood up again, this time getting a boost from Sherlock, and swung her foot over. "Hey! I'm up! Oh my God, I'm up."

Sherlock patted her calf and handed her the reins. "Remember: calm and confident. I'm going to mount Syd. I'll be right over."

"Syd? Your horse's name is Syd?" Molly turned in the saddle to watch Sherlock. Her stomach lurched as she watched him effortless mount his piebald gelding. The horse didn't look anything like a Syd. Maybe an Oreo but certainly not a Syd.

Sherlock ruffled the horse's mane affectionately before walking him over to her. Oh, she could definitely get used to riding if it meant seeing Sherlock like this. Molly shook her head, sending her helmet sliding to the right.

"You need to tighten your helmet," Sherlock scolded.

Molly glowered at him, as she pulled on the strap. "You're not even wearing a helmet!"

"I've been riding since I was three years old," Sherlock shot back.

"So? Safety first." Molly sat straight up in her saddle, trying to look as haughty as possible. An effect ruined when Guinness danced a little beneath her, making her grasp the pommel in terror.

"I'll put a helmet on as soon as we ride out into the park. Now, let's work on your alignment and holding the reins."

Molly furrowed her brow and looked down at her hands. "There's a wrong way to hold the reins?"

"Oh yes."

Oh dear.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, they finally headed towards the park proper. Sherlock taught Molly how to position herself, direct her horse, stop her horse, and walked with her around the enclosure until she was comfortable.

"Later, I'll teach you how to trot."

"What? I literally have a ton of animal under me and you want me to make it  _run_?"

"It's just trotting, not a canter or a gallop. You'll be fine. Sit up straight. Heels down."

Molly immediately altered her position. Molly had a feeling that she would be hearing 'heels down' a lot this afternoon. "Did you choose this just so you can boss me around?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly," Sherlock said, turning onto the wide dirt path hallmarking Rotten Row. "I boss you around even when we're not riding."

Well. She couldn't really deny it, now could she?

"What do you know about Rotten Row?" Sherlock asked.

"Besides it being a popular place in romance books? Nothing really, except for the fact it goes to the Serpentine." She wondered what it would be like, riding down this path a hundred and fifty years ago, decked out in a riding habit and surrounded by the upper crust. It must have looked lovely, all the different colors of ladies dress and the variety of horses.

"It's over a kilometer long. We'll walk down to the Serpentine and on our way back I'll teach you how to trot. Do you know why it's called Rotten Row? Heels down."

Molly scowled. She hated not being good at things immediately. It was one of the reasons she never excelled at drawing, no patience for it. She didn't have to be an expert immediately but she liked activities where she showed potential at least. "I have no idea." She assumed it smelled bad. All the horse poop and people sweat. Not to mention who knows what the sewage system was like back then?

Sherlock launched into an explanation. "'Rotten Row' was originally called Route du Roi before being corrupted…"

Molly sat back and let Sherlock talk. He liked showing off his knowledge, as well as showing off in general, and there was little he did not know about London. She was content to let his voice wash over her, giving her the history of Rotten Row as they rode leisurely down the path.

…first artificially lit highway in England-heels down, Molly."

* * *

"I am going to be hearing 'heels down' in my dreams tonight."

Sherlock handed Syd off to a stable hand, with an affectionate pat on his neck. Though more docile than he preferred his mounts, he was a good horse. "I didn't have to say it as much near the end." Sherlock spotted her dismount as another worker held Guinness's reins.

"Whoa," Molly exclaimed, stumbling, her foot caught in the stirrup.

He quickly grabbed her waist, steadying her. "It's all right. I have you."

"Thanks." Molly looked up at him and he involuntary tightened his grip. "This was absolutely brilliant, Sherlock."

"I look forward to taking you out riding again." Watching Molly grow more confident in her riding, knowing he taught her, was one of the best parts of the ride. He couldn't wait until she was confident enough to go beyond Hyde Park and their tame, docile horses.

Molly blinked suddenly and pulled away. "I think John will enjoy this also. It's a good idea for a date. Maybe the three of us can go riding once you two have settled in." She turned away to stroke Guinness. "Thanks for not killing me you smelly beast."

Guinness snorted as he was lead away to his stall to be taken care of.

Sherlock took off his helmet, running his fingers through his flattened curls. This façade has truly become tedious. Tonight he will explain everything to her.  _How_  he was going to do it remained to be seen. Hopefully, an opportunity will present itself.

"I have to admit, you were more patient with me than I expected." Molly unbuckled her helmet but didn't remove it. "I thought you would have given up on me after I kept dropping the reins."

Sherlock shrugged. He was a bit surprised at how patient he was too. Probably because Molly's mistakes weren't from carelessness but inexperience, he had little patience for careless or stupid people. Molly's mistakes were mostly made when she was concentrating on correcting some other issue such as her posture. "A cab's waiting to take us back to Baker Street."

"For food?" Molly looked at him, hope written across her face. "I am a bit peckish." As if on cue, her stomach rumbled loudly. "Okay, I'm more than a bit peckish."

"I'll order some takeaway while you return the boots. The food be waiting for us when we return, though I do have other meal plans." Sherlock pulled out his mobile, ready to text the nearest Chinese shop. Dumplings and some egg rolls will take the edge off and they were always quick with his order. No need to ruin her appetite for dinner. For the first time in ages, he was actually excited to prepare a meal.

* * *

Molly walked slowly up the stairs behind Sherlock. Her arse and back were killing her. Every step made her muscles throb. Stupid Guinness and his stupid bouncing walk. There was a  _reason_ horses were replaced by cars and Molly was fairly sure the aches she felt right now was the reason. The moment she got home tonight she was going to take a long, hot bath. Oh yes, that sounded brilliant. Pour herself a glass of wine or perhaps a cuppa, depending upon her mood. Grab a magazine or a book for entertainment. Maybe she'll even pull out one of those bath bomb things she keeps getting from people at assorted holidays. No candles though, some cliché boundaries were not to be crossed.

Hopefully the bath bomb won't turn her blue or anything. That would be embarrassing.

Sherlock was bustling through the kitchen, pulling out ingredients and instruments and throwing them on the table when Molly finally made it up the stairs. Molly gingerly sat down on the stool, opening the styrofoam container that was holding her dumplings. True to his word, the food was waiting for them as soon as they arrived.

She breathed in deeply. Oh yes. The smell of ginger, pork and oil tickled her nose. This was just what the doctor ordered. Molly picked up the plastic fork and dove in. She just barely kept from moaning in appreciation. This was the most delicious thing she could imagine right now.

"Want one?" She asked, offering up a dumpling after inhaling half the order. Molly really hoped Sherlock would say no but it seemed polite to at least offer.

Sherlock grabbed the dumpling off her fork and popped it into his mouth with a nod of thanks. He turned his attention to straightening the supply-laden table.

"Uh, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

Molly held up a pipette and a syringe. "What  _exactly_  are we eating tonight?" Was that a bottle of distilled water on the table?

"We are creating and then eating some molecular gastronomy masterpieces. Food and science." Sherlock bent to the side and placed a metal dewar on the table with bright yellow 'Caution: Liquid Nitrogen' sticker on the side on the table.

"Oh my God. This is going to be amazing." Molly didn't mind cooking but she wouldn't say it was something she looked forward to doing. However cooking with liquid nitrogen might just change her mind.

Sherlock grinned boyishly at her. "My thoughts exactly."

* * *

"This is so incredibly weird," Molly said, taking a bite of her warm maple ice cream.

"More so than the arugula spaghetti?"

"Oh yeah. Ice cream that's hot? It's really screwing with me."

Several hours of experimenting had passed and they were finally on the dessert portion of their meal. The food wasn't what Sherlock would consider satisfying but it was certainly different and definitely not boring. Creating the variety of dishes lead to arguments of the science and processes behind it. Sherlock loved debating with Molly about chemistry. Mostly because he tended to win as Molly's strengths leaned more towards biology.

"This is better than the shrimp." Skewering shrimp on pipettes filled with cocktail sauce was quite the cop out, in his opinion. It was a disappointing start to their venture.

"The shrimp wasn't bad, it was just boring. I really liked the egg foam though not as much as the potato gnocchi foam."

"That one was satisfactory." Much more interesting than the shrimp. Creating alginate baths and whipping the potato into foam was rather enjoyable. If all cooking was done with pressurized containers and graduated cylinders, he would do this much more often. Though the labor intensive process with little output was a bit off putting.

"Are you still disappointed that you couldn't use the liquid nitrogen?" Molly rested her head on her hand and gave him a knowing look.

Sherlock took another bite of his dessert, refusing to answer her. He was not going to admit how annoyed he was to learn that the chocolate dessert had a 12 hour wait before it could be placed in the liquid nitrogen. He was prepared to ignore the wait time but Molly had threatened to call Mrs. Hudson if he tried it. Perhaps after Molly leaves and Mrs. Hudson takes her soothers he'll do it.

"Don't worry, tomorrow you can play with the liquid nitrogen."

"Cut the tone, Molly," Sherlock said sullenly. There was no need to tease him.

Molly gave a short good-natured laugh, the way she always did when she managed to provoke him. "Do you want to see how our desiccated raspberry caramel crisp which is not actually a crisp is doing?"

"Might as well," Sherlock said, pulling the Tupperware towards him. The raspberry dessert was not exactly difficult but it was tedious. He very nearly threw the whole thing across the room in frustration. There were only so many times can he could cock up the isomalt process before losing his temper. Especially since he didn't even fancy raspberries. The only thing saving the concoction from being smeared across a bullet ridden smiley face was Molly shooing him off to figure out the whipping siphon. She took over making the dish while he injected the gnocchi foam into the calcium bath. The raspberry crisp was the only dish she solely created. She very politely, and later not so politely, had him bog off every time he tried to lend a hand.

The self satisfied smile on her face when she snapped the lid on its contain along with the desiccant packets was all he needed to see to know how proud she was of it. Molly scooted her chair over next to him for a better view. Sherlock slowly undid the lid, knowing that every second of delay would annoy her. Molly huffed as he took his time opening it up.

Molly let out a cry of delight. "Perfect! Look at it!" She reached over and pulled out the thin crisp sweet. She examined it carefully, grinning all the while before breaking off a piece and popping it into her mouth. Molly let out a moan of delight. "It even tastes good." She held out a piece for him to take.

Sherlock leaned forward and ate the piece out of her hand instead, keeping his eyes locked on her. The sweet thin caramel threaded through the crisp mixed with the tart raspberry perfectly. Molly's breath hitched when his tongue brushed her finger. He closed his lips around her fingers, sucking on them as he pulled off her fingers. His mind was telling him that this was not the way he wanted to tell Molly that he never wanted to date John. He was going to lead her through his logic process, letting her know exactly why he did what he did.

Molly would understand why he did it. She would see through his explanation and know that this was his way of dealing with his inexperience, to gather and sort data. Molly may think it was misguided but she knows he's not like other men. She accepted that he was not like other people and that he would be no different even in the mundane ritual of dating.

"Sher-" His name was cut off when his hand slid up to cup her cheek, urging her towards him. Sherlock leaned in and placed a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.

Her skin tasted of the bitter camphor of moisturizer and the talc of her make up. Where his lips met hers, the sticky raspberry and caramel of her crisp still lingered. Sherlock pulled away slightly to smell her hair. Tea tree oil, most likely because of her eczema, and the faint vaguely metallic scent of sweat and earthy horse, a souvenir of their ride. The faintest aroma of her perfume; fresh and vaguely fruity clung to her. He wanted to whisper her name but was afraid it would shatter the scene. Explanations would be given soon enough but presently he wanted to hold on to this brief moment.

The bang of a door flying open caused Molly to jerk away.

"John," she gasped, her eyes wide in horror at the grocery-laden doctor's startled face.

_Fuck._


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t apologize enough for the delay. This chapter did NOT want to be written in any acceptable manner. I had the first couple pages written months ago and then nothing until like two weeks ago.
> 
> So, to those (both new and old!) that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc you guys are awesome! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Thank you so much for sticking with me. As a fic reader, I know how much waiting sucks. I do not do this on purpose, I promise.
> 
> Please continue to let me know what you think. Reviews and sharing your thoughts really do spur me into writing and I appreciate the time you guys take to write reviews. I re-read reviews constantly, to help me through writing blocks. I hope the story lives up to your expectations.
> 
> Much thanks to thatred-hairedgirl for looking this over! Without her, you would have to deal with all sorts of mixed metaphors and run on sentences.

“Hi John!” Molly said brightly. “How were the shops?”

 

John stood in the doorway perfectly still and straight backed like the ex-army doctor he was.  His eyes darted between her and Sherlock several times before fixing his gaze somewhere over her head.  “Well, I didn’t have a row with the chip and pin machine.”

 

“That’s progress!”  Molly slid off her stool and scooped up her puffer vest that was hanging off the radiator.  “Well, Sherlock and I were just finishing up here.  Saying our goodbyes and all.  Sherlock, why don’t you give John some gnocchi foam?”

 

“I’m sorry, gnocchi _foam_?”

 

“Much better than it sounds, trust me,” Molly assured him.  Inspite of, or perhaps because of, her suggestion Sherlock did not move from his seat at the table. Molly wrung her hands and tried her absolute best to communicate with Sherlock with just her eyes. Surely the most observant man in the word can see that her wide (and probably slightly bugged out) eyes meant, ‘get the gnocchi. Move. Give him the gnocchi. Why aren’t you moving?’

 

The tension in the room was heavily competing with having to tell one of her case’s parents that their son was murdered via erotic asphyxiation by a spurned lover for second place on her most-awkward-experience-list.

 

Though at least this time there weren’t any family members watching her hand over an overlarge dildo in an evidence bag to Detective Inspector Lestrade.

 

No use, she’ll have to break the tension. “Well, I’m sure Sherlock will be happy to show you today’s experiments.  I really must dash.  Work and all that tomorrow.”

 

Now she just has to scoot behind John, slip out the door and…yes! In the clear!  Molly rushed down the stairs as fast as she dared.

 

Oh God, she hoped she didn’t muck things up for the two of them.  Sherlock’s kissed her on the cheek plenty times in the past.  All right, five times.  Point was, there is precedence, making it much easier for John to buy the story that Sherlock was saying good-bye.

 

Of course, all the times he has kissed her before it was very firmly on the cheek and almost perfunctory. This one was almost half on the lips, much closer than any of them had been and he’d lingered. And cupped her cheek which was also quite new.

 

And confusing.

 

Molly jogged down the pavement towards Marylebone Road, and the glorious refuge of the Baker Street tube station, the moment she closed the door to 221B.  If things went pear shaped, she did _not_ want to be in the area.

* * *

John rubbed the bridge of this nose, feeling a headache forming.  Damn it, he knew this was a bad idea.  He should have been more forceful with Sherlock in stopping it sooner.   Hell, he should have been more forceful in stopping Sherlock from running after her.  Last thing Sherlock needed was to get into a grand row in the middle of London and have it splashed all over the rags.

 

John bent down and grabbed the shopping, intent on putting the groceries away. 

 John was gingerly moving a dish aside that possibly held the remnants of a pancreas to make room for the milk, when he heard Sherlock come back up the stairs. “Need me to clear out?”

 

John turned when he received no reply. Sherlock stood there, hands in white knuckled fists, staring at John.

 

“Uh, I take it you didn’t catch her?”

 

“Seventy-eight percent of the time Molly takes the N137.  Seventy-eight percent.”  Sherlock didn’t say anything after his statement, staring hatefully at John.

 

“And, uh, she didn’t today?”

 

“Today would fall under the twenty two percentage where she took a cab or the tube. Both of which necessitate her going to Marylebone.”

 

“Which is in the opposite direction of Oxford.”  Oh shit, he knows where this is going.  Maybe he should ask Mike if he could kip on his couch. “Look, I’m not sorry I made you miss her. You needed to hear what I said-“

 

“Yes, for ‘Mate, I think you should talk to her tomorrow after you’ve thought this through’ is _truly_ the proverb of our age.  The world is much improved by you uttering it.” Sherlock bit off the last two words with such force that John was slightly surprised he didn’t chip a tooth.

 

“This,” John waved his arm about, “is not my fault. I told you not to lie to her. I told you to come clean before it got too far.”

 

“It’s not too late!” Sherlock insisted.  “I’ll let her know you believed her story and we’ll continue on.”

 

“No, Sherlock. You tell Molly the truth or I will do it for you.”  It wasn’t often he gave Sherlock the look he cultivated disciplining unruly medics in the Army. John tried to save it for dire times to keep it effective.  Now was such a time that called for it.

 

Sherlock’s face twisted in disgust.  “I’ll go to Bart’s tomorrow and tell her.”

 

John closed his eyes. Sherlock really was incredibly ignorant. “Don’t do it at Bart’s. Do it someplace private.”

 

“Fine. Her flat, then.”

 

“Don’t screw this up Sherlock. You already don’t deserve her, don’t make it worse.”

* * *

 

 

“…and then he kissed me. Granted it wasn’t _quite_ on the mouth but it was rather close.” Molly paused to push her glasses back up her nose with her shoulder.  Wouldn’t do for those to fall off.  “He’s kissed me before on the cheek but it seemed different this time like it was going to lead to something more, not just a friendly peck.  But I have no idea why he would do something like that if he wanted to date-Oh!” Molly cut herself off abruptly.  “Mr. Seymour, you did not tell me you had sickle cell disease!”

 

Molly carefully removed the engorged spleen.  “Well this certainly explains the jaundice and back pain you had.   I’ll just put this in formaldehyde and we’ll get back to our examination.  I know. I know it seems silly but I need to make sure that this was the cause of death.”

 

Molly carefully preserved the organ and turned back to her ‘patient.’  “Splenic sequestration is quite uncommon in adults, you know.   You’re the first one I’ve had; usually it’s a child on my slab.  No offense, Mr. Seymour, I’m sure you were a lovely person, but I much prefer that it’s you instead.” Molly started to disentangle the small intestine, inspecting the integrity of the organ and searching for abnormalities.  “Sherlock would probably love to see your spleen.  Part of me wants to text him and let him know, but I’m feeling a bit, well, cowardly I suppose. I mean, should I bring up what happened? Am I making mountains out of molehills? I don’t think so, but what if I am? I’m dying to know what happened after I, well, ran away.  No use trying to be diplomatic.  Oh my, look at this!”  Molly rubbed her thumb over the small lump on the jejunum.  “Mr. Seymour, you are just full of surprises!”

 

Molly made careful note of the neoplasm before continuing the post mortem.  “As I was saying, sorry.  I just don’t know what Sherlock was thinking in kissing me. I have my thoughts, of course, but none of them make sense.  If it were any other bloke, I would say Sherlock was making a move, but this is _Sherlock._   I know you don’t know, or well, knew I should say, him, but Sherlock doesn’t really do sentiment and emotions, so the likelihood of him flitting from John to me is quite low.  He’s not really fickle, he’s very determined and goal oriented.  In his own special way, of course. And usually goals are just solving a case. But he becomes quite obsessed when he sets his mind to something. I must be mad, especially because Sherlock knows that if he asked me for a date, I would say yes without hesitation. Sad on my part, yes, but true.”

 

Molly stuffed the intestines in a biohazard bag and tucked it into the abdomen.  “I don’t think we need to crack open your skull, you’ve been most accommodating.  We’ll just stitch you back up and send you out.”

 

“Professor Hooper, are you talking to someone?” 

 

Molly whirled around in horror to see one of the med students standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry?”

 

“I-I thought I heard you say something?”

 

“Uh, no, just the voice recorder.”  She gestured to the recorder, hoping that he couldn’t see that it wasn’t on.

 

“Professor Stamford sent me to get you.  Professor Lo went home sick and he needs you to proctor her immunology lab at two.”

 

Molly glanced at the clock on the wall.  1:15. Well that wasn’t much notice, was it? “Right, thank you. I’ll be there.”

 

Molly turned back to the body on the table as soon as the student left.  “I despise proctoring labs.  Though this does give me an excuse to not text Sherlock, since he can’t be in the lab without me. Which is quite lucky don't you think?” Her hands stilled from opening the suturing kit.    “I have got to stop talking to corpses.  This can’t be healthy.”

* * *

 

Molly poked at her dinner of leftover vindaloo halfheartedly. If it wasn’t for all the onions in the dish, she was tempted to just hand it over to Toby who was desperately pawing her leg and crying for a taste of her meal.  Last thing she needed today was to rush her cat to the vet for renal failure. Honestly, it was the last thing she needed any day, but today especially.

 

Molly rubbed at her neck, trying to knead her too tight muscles.  Sherlock had come to Bart’s to inspect a corpse with Lestrade right as she was leaving to proctor Dr. Lo’s lab.  Consequently, she spent the rest of the day as a tense coil of paranoid energy, waiting for Sherlock to pop up.

 

Because he did that a lot, pop up.  Even in places where there was no place to hide, Sherlock would just appear as if summoned. Like Beetlejuice.

 

But with better hygiene.

 

And manners.

 

And hair.

 

            All right so not so much like Beetlejuice.

 

            All throughout proctoring the immunology lab she waited for him to appear. Consequently, Molly thought of several scenarios that would happen the next time they met. Which gave her time to think of all the negative scenarios.  Which made her anxious.  Which caused her to tense up and become more jumpy than a grasshopper.  Which frightened more than one med student when they asked her a question and she startled like an abused dog.  Which just made her more self-conscious and tense.

 

            Molly rubbed her eyes.  Maybe she should just head to bed.  She glanced over at the clock on the microwave. 19:30.  Okay, maybe she won’t go to bed just yet.  Molly dumped her vindaloo in the bin, it wasn’t that good anyway. That was what she got for trying new take away places instead of her old standbys.

 

            She flopped on her sofa and began to listlessly flip through the channels as Toby claimed his perch on the back of her plush sofa, so that he may observe his domain through the window.

 

_Hollyoaks? No._

_Weather? Overcast and rainy? In London?  In autumn? Quelle surprise!_

_Simpsons? Nah._

_Football?  Valencia and Sevilla? Who cares?_

_Murder, She Wrote? Unless Jessica finally commits murder, I don’t give a toss._

_You’ve been framed? Eh._

_What the hell is this? I don’t even-I’m just changing._

_Don’t tell the bride? Hmm, this has possibilities. This bloke wants a_ robot _at his_ wedding _? Jackpot!_

            Molly grabbed her much abused throw blanket and snuggled up on the sofa, ready to see what terrible decisions the groom was going to make.

 

Just as Charles was choosing bridesmaid dresses that belong on a lad’s mag more than in a wedding, there was a knock on Molly’s door.  Molly reluctantly paused the show with a sigh.  _This was not over yet, Charles!_

 

Molly’s stomach dropped as she began to cross the room to the door.  She stopped short of the door and began chewing on her thumb. It was most likely Sherlock on the other side of the door.  The only people who visited unexpectedly were from maintenance, Mr. Mustapha in the apartment above her, and Sherlock.

 

Considering there was a distinct lack of loud ‘90s pop ballads and every song known to man with ‘habibi’ in the title, Mr. Mustapha was out of town.

 

It was too late for maintenance to visit, narrowing it down to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock, who kissed her, albeit on the corner of her mouth.

 

Sherlock, who has been surprisingly thoughtful the last couple weeks.

 

Sherlock, who was confusing the hell out of her.

 

“Molly,” Sherlock’s voice resonated through the door.  “You and I both know I know you’re there and I know you know I know you know. I heard you turn off the television. Open the door.”

 

Molly let out a low whine of indecision.  There was really no reason to _not_ open the door. She just-she just didn't really _want_ to.  Because then they would talk about what happened. She could not get the ridiculous scenario out of her head that Sherlock was testing some compound that was transferred via the lips like some bad sci-fi movie, and he was only here to see the results of his experiment.  It was absolutely _stupid_ and made no sense, but her mind had a habit of not cooperating.

 

“I’ll pick the lock.”

 

Molly’s shoulders slumped and she shuffled the few steps to the door.  No use delaying the inevitable.  Molly undid the locks and opened the door.

 

She and Sherlock just looked at each other in silence.

 

Sherlock broke the silence by asking, “Are you going to let me in?”

 

“Oh right, yes.” Molly stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to enter the flat.  The closing of the front door was punctuated by the frantic jingling of Toby’s bell as he fled to the safety of her bedroom, sure that an intruder had come to kill him.

 

Well, she didn’t adopt Toby for his protective capabilities.

 

“So, all right then, Sherlock?” 

 

Sherlock was sat in her battered armchair as if he were a king on a throne, ready to mete out justice to his subjects.

 

“John said that it was better to talk about yesterday in privacy rather than at Bart’s.”

 

After realizing that Sherlock apparently had no desire to continue speaking, Molly murmured her agreement.

 

Sherlock sighed, rather dramatically, tossing his head back so that he was examining her ceiling with great interest.  “I need to confess that I have been duplicitous these past few weeks.  I have no desire to become intimate with John, just as John has even less desire to become intimate with me.”

 

Molly could have sworn the entire world stopped. For a moment it was as if all the systems that worked together to keep her alive and make her Molly just completely halted. Her legs collapsed under her, sending her heavily onto the couch.  Her breath caught in her chest and surely that sharp ache in her breast was because her heart had stuttered in its rhythm.  Through it all, her mind was blissfully blank.

 

Then like a city at the end of a power outage, everything surged.  Her stomach lurched, her heart raced, and her mind whirled with every possible thought under the sun until all she could choke out was, “ _What?”_

* * *

 

 

Sherlock could not remember the last time that he was this apprehensive. Other moments, such as meeting Moriarty at Bart’s rooftop and realizing what danger he was in, or waiting for the results of his mother’s breast biopsy, made unfit comparisons.  In those situations there were clear plans of action and ways out. He and Mycroft had planned for all scenarios that could happen on that rooftop; his mother had access to the finest doctors and medical care in the world if her lump had not been benign.

 

Here? If Molly scorned him and demanded he never contact her again? 

 

There was no solution he could think of.

 

“Why?” The word came out caught on her breath, muting the question.

 

Sherlock had no response to that.  The reason for his deceit seemed stupid and childish now, not the brilliant plan it had been in the beginning.  Over the last few days it had become apparent that when he started this venture that he had no concrete plan in how to end it and reveal his intentions to Molly. An oversight that was never more strikingly clear than right now.

 

“I don’t-was this some sort of behavior experiment or-or some test to see if I was a decent friend?”

 

Sherlock reluctantly drew his head back down so that he was facing Molly instead of her popcorn disaster of ceiling.  She was hunched over, her arms tightly crossed as she peered at him with trepidation. Sherlock slowly shook his head back and forth to answer her question.

 

“Then why lie?” Molly hissed.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, moment of truth.  “I wasn’t lying when I said that I decided it would be in John and my best interest to pursue a relationship. Nor when I said that I needed your guidance. You, however, misinterpreted my words to think that I wanted to be in a relationship with John. When I went to disabuse of the notion the next day you offered to help me learn the peculiarities of romantic relationships and dating. Learning your preferences would be very beneficial and it was an offer I was reluctant to refuse.”

 

“I…still don’t understand what you meant.”

 

Sherlock huffed. Was she attempting to make him say it? Have him confess some sort of flowery declaration of love and lust?  “Don’t be thick, Molly,” he scoffed.

 

Molly leapt to her feet, straightening her spine and throwing back her shoulders to the extent that would make a bootcamp instructor weep with pride. Clearly, trying to take advantage of her limited height.  “Don’t get tetchy with me, Sherlock Holmes!  You were the one who not only lied to me, but gave me a piss poor reason to explain why!”

 

            Sherlock stood, instantly negating Molly’s previous height advantage. “Piss poor? _Piss poor?_  I don’t think that trying to learn how to act so that I might have a successful relationship is _piss poor.”_

 

            “It is when you use _me_ and lie to _me_ to do it!” Unlike many other women Sherlock knew, Molly’s voice didn’t become shrill when she shouted, taking on a rather odd almost booming tone.  “Why the hell couldn’t you have just said so in the first place? What was the point of pretending to like John?  Why couldn’t you have just bloody said who it was?”

 

            “Who it-?  It was _you_. So telling you would rather defeat the point!”

 

            Molly’s previously narrow eyes widened in shock as she involuntarily took a step back. Her voice cracked as she said, “Me? It was me?” 

 

            “Of _course_ it was you!” Sherlock had meant to sound scornful and exasperated in her lack of perception but he just ended up sounding tired.

 

            Molly sat down heavily on the sofa, staring off into the distance.

 

            “Molly?” Sherlock questioned after several minutes of silence.

 

            “I think you should leave,” she whispered, still staring at some unknown point.

 

            Sherlock recoiled as if she had slapped him.  This was exactly what he feared would happen.  He knelt down beside her and grabbed her limp hand.  “You know I hate talk of sentiment and feelings, but Molly, let’s talk about this.  Please.”

 

            Molly blinked rapidly and turned to face him.  She gently laid her other hand on top of the one he had clutched in his grasp.  There was no smile on her face, but her eyes softened.  “I just need time to think and sort some things out.”

 

            “You can’t think with me here?”

 

            Molly laughed weakly. “You of all people know that sometimes you just need to be alone to think.”  She tightened her grip.  “I promise we’ll talk about this more.  Just-just not tonight.”

 

            “How much time do you need?” Sherlock asked wearily.

 

            “A day, maybe two.  If you don’t hear from me by Wednesday you have my permission to hunt me down.”

 

            The detective nodded decisively.  “I’ll leave you to think.”  He scooped up the coat he had tossed in a pile on the floor and threw it on. Sherlock stopped on his way to the door, struck with a thought.  “Molly, Bart’s and the lab…”

 

            “You still have access, don’t worry.”

 

            Sherlock nodded with relief.  The last thing he needed was to be deprived of his pathologist _and_ his work and experiments.  He would have no idea what he would do if he were denied. “May I ask how you’re feeling before I go?”

 

            Molly always told him to keep track of his partner’s emotional state. _“It will help stop avoidable rows.  If John’s upset about something, even if you don’t want him to talk about it, it’s a good idea to at least not make it worse.  Because then you become a target and we both know that John has a bit of a temper.”_

 

            Molly blinked at him.  “I have absolutely no idea.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anger

\+ Annoyance

\+ Hurt

\+ Betrayal

\+ Confusion

\+ Flattered

\+ Wanted

\+ Amused

\+ Embarrassed

\+ Stupid

___________________

???????????

 

Molly stared down at the equation she had doodled on her serviette.  She took advantage of her lunchtime at Bart’s to try and sort out everything she was feeling in wake of Sherlock’s confession.

 

It wasn’t working.

 

            The pathologist sighed and glanced down at her plate of congealing gravy and its remnants of dry, rubbery meat.  Perhaps she should take Sherlock’s advice and start packing her lunch.

 

            Everything felt so muddled.  Since yesterday evening she swung from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other.

 

            At moments she felt thrilled that Sherlock wanted her.   After literally years of trying to smother her love for him and embrace their friendship, he finally wanted her.

 

Stupid; that she didn’t figure out what he meant.

 

Unexpectedly wanted; that he would go to all this trouble just to make sure their relationship would be a success.

 

Betrayed and hurt that he lied to her.

           

            Why didn’t he just stop the whole charade when he realized just how bad he was hurting her?  Everyone with eyes (and some even without) knew how she felt about Sherlock.  Molly was well aware of her lack of thespian talents (there was a reason she was always one half of the donkey in the Christmas play), there was no way she could have concealed her feelings that well. It was obvious that her helping him figure out how to date John was extremely painful, but she was just _that good_ a friend.

 

            “Uh, may I sit down?”

 

            Molly jerked up, causing her to knock over her, thankfully almost empty, cup of tea. John stood on the other side of the table, shifting from foot to foot. He had apparently eschewed the canteen’s hot food settling for just a cup of coffee and the least bruisedbanana available. 

 

            “I understand if you tell me to bugger off…” his voice trailed off, as the doctor dropped his gaze to the ground.

 

            Molly sighed.  “Sure, why the hell not?”

 

            It’s not like he could make things any worse.  Molly winced; perhaps she should knock on wood.

 

            “So I think you know why I’m here.”  John fiddled with the stubby stem of his banana, refusing to meet Molly’s eyes.

 

            “Begins with a ‘Sh’ and ends in an ‘erlock’?” Molly asked drily.

 

            “Yeah. He’s a bit of a berk.” John’s ever suffering tone made Molly’s lips twitch reluctantly.  “He doesn’t know I’m here, by the way.  Thinks I’m off buying milk.”

 

            “How do you two go through so much milk?”  The question burst out of Molly mouth, quite without her permission.

 

            “I have no bloody idea.  Even accounting for tea, cereal, and his experiments, it doesn’t make any sense. I’m half convinced the man takes milk baths. Only explanation. But, right, I’m here to sort of plead on behalf of my arsehole mate for you to go easy on him.”

 

John hurriedly continued when Molly’s mouth opened to reply.  “You don’t have to-to date him or anything if you don’t want to. Just remember that Sherlock has been Billy no-mates for so long that he cocks it up when it comes to people.  The man honestly thought what he was doing was a good idea. I probably should have tried harder to convince him otherwise, or at least not go along with it, but I can’t change the past.” 

 

“I think anyone who ever met Sherlock is aware of his complete and utter lack of people skills.” Molly jabbed at the remnants of her meal with her fork. “Look, I don’t know what I’m planning on doing but I’ll keep what you said in mind.  It’s not like I’ve known him for two years longer than you.”

 

Childish jab, that, but Molly couldn’t resist.  Honestly, if nothing else, she _knew_ what Sherlock was like and that was one of the reasons she didn’t fly completely off the hook when she realized she’d been played.  Just partly off the hook.  She was like a snagged jumper, dangling on the hook by a thread.

 

“Right. Right, I’m preaching to the choir. I just thought since I was at Bart’s, I’d see if I could help.” John stood up, coffee in his hand, banana abandoned, unpeeled on the table.  “Sherlock really does want to be with you.  I’d tell you if I thought he was doing this to take the mick. Sherlock just has no idea how to act like a human being.” With that John nodded and left the canteen, chucking his coffee cup in the bin on his way out.

 

            Molly stared at her plate, thoughts whirling through her head. John didn’t really tell her anything she didn’t already know or suspect, but hearing someone else say it, for some reason, made it that much more real.

 

            The pathologist slipped her mobile out of her pocket, thumbed in her passcode, and opened a blank text.  She hesitated, her finger poised above her keyboard before taking a deep breath and typing:

 

            _Speedy’s? After my shift?-M_

            She didn’t have time to put her phone away before it vibrated.

 

            _I’ll be there-SH_

* * *

 

 

            Sherlock once had a client whose flat was covered in, theoretically artistic, portrayals of inspirational quotes.  Everywhere he turned there was an elephant balancing on a ball entreating him to be courageous, or a heavily photo shopped image of train tracks scolding him not to judge others.  One overly large picture had a place of honor above the fireplace, of a ballerina with an umbrella philosophizing that one must learn to dance in the rain, not wait for the storm to pass.

 

            Whoever created that particular axiom never met Molly Hooper.

 

            When Molly arrived at Speedy’s, her previously uniformly colored trousers had become a gradient of browns, sepia at the hems that slowly lightened to tan before becoming the beige of the original fabric.  The trousers drooped off her hips, the waterlogged slacks trying desperately to succumb to the lure of gravity.  She shook her brolly perfunctorily as she stepped into the café, her nose wrinkled in vexation.   As she sloshed over to the table Sherlock had laid claim, her shoes squished and whined with every step as if exhausted.

 

            “In case you were wondering, now may be a good time to repair that broken canoe you have in the attic.”  Molly stood before the table, clutching her miraculously dry messenger bag that did double duty as a briefcase and handbag.

 

            “There does appear to be a deluge out there,” Sherlock agreed.

 

            Molly sighed and flung her bag into the booth before scooting in next to it. “You’d think I’d be drier considering I took a cab _and_ had an umbrella.”

 

            Sherlock sipped his, rather tepid, tea and hummed noncommittally.

 

            “So, I suppose we have things to talk about.”  Molly stared at her hands, refusing to meet his gaze.

 

            “I suppose we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! It’s another cliffhanger! In my defense, this wasn’t planned. I had wanted this to be the last chapter. However it got to the point where I hadn’t added anything for awhile and the chapter was already so long that I could easily split it. So I decided to do so.
> 
> If you have not already done so, click on chapter one! Lexie (Artbylexie) was good enough to accept a commission from me and create such a lovely picture. I told her I wanted it to have a rom com-esque cover and she came up with the idea of harking back to old Hollywood rom-com posters. It’s brilliant, isn’t it?!


	11. Chapter 11

"I honestly don't know where or how to begin," Molly admitted, still studying her hands. "I suppose I should ask if anyone else knew?"

"This being my deception?" Sherlock asked carefully.

Molly nodded.

"If he's managed to install another camera, Mycroft probably knew. Mrs. Hudson, possibly, John tends to blather while watching Eastenders. No one else knew for certain besides John. And Lestrade."

"Greg knew?" Molly looked at him, her eyes wide with shock. She had  _gossiped_ with him about how she was helping Sherlock woo John. Grilled him for information about how they acted at crime scenes, if he noticed anything different. Not once did he indicate that he knew what Sherlock was really doing. Of course, Molly wasn't exactly looking for those signs. Christ, she was an idiot.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "No. Lestrade knew. Who's Greg?"

"You're joking right? Greg Lestrade _."_ Molly emphasized his last name. Did he honestly not know Greg's name? Molly had assumed it was, a rather tired, joke between the two of them.

"I thought his name was Gerald."

"No you didn't."

"You're right, I didn't," Sherlock conceded. "I had no idea what his name was."

Molly rubbed her eyes. A long shift's work was starting to catch up with her. It didn't help matters that she slept like shit the last couple of nights, her mind keeping her up. "Right so just you, Greg, and John for sure?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh, just seeing who else was having a laugh at me behind my back." Molly ran her fingers through the spilt sugar on the table, swirling incoherent designs. "Sherlock…"

"Yes?" Sherlock said after the silence grew too long, a hint of impatience coloring his tone.

"You told me why you, you did this." Molly waved her hand about, sending sugar granules about the table, "but why did you tell me? Why now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Several reasons, honestly. John threatened to tell you himself. I became more and more annoyed with the whole charade as it started to negatively impact our interactions. I've obtained enough information to make a satisfactory start to a relationship." Sherlock swirled his coffee stirrer, lifting it out of the cup to examine the falling drops as if it was the most fascinating thing in existence. "You started to smile too much."

Smile too much? What the hell does that even mean? Shouldn't he want her to smile? She didn't remember smiling more often than normal. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock sighed as if they were at Bart's and he was annoyed for having to explain an 'obvious' deduction. "Smile. You started to smile, grin almost. All teeth and crinkled skin about your eyes. It was annoying. Fake. You don't smile. You do this," Sherlock gestured at his face, twirling his hand about to indicate his lips, "closed mouth almost amused subtle smirk thing with your lips when you're truly happy. It's like you're trying to hide the fact that you're happy. When you smile and show your teeth, you're faking it. Overcompensating. You started to smile too much around me."

Molly blinked. She had absolutely no idea that she did that. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. "I just feel so stupid about this."

"Well, you were."

"Sherlock!" She reprimanded him, her mouth open in shock. That was  _not_ the way to get himself back into her good books.

"You  _were._  My phrasing may have been…poor, but I would think it was obvious that I spoke about you. When have I  _ever_  shown a romantic interest in John?"

"Never," Molly admitted. "However, you also never showed an interest in  _me._  The only time I've even heard about you being interested in someone was that Irene something or another."

"Adler," Sherlock corrected reflexively. He furrowed his brow and looked at her with slit eyes. "How do you know about her?"

The pathologist snorted. Not her most elegant response, but it happened quite without her permission. "Besides the fact that I was there when you identified not her body?"

"No one ever said her name," Sherlock cut in.

Molly pursed her lips in irritation. "She was also mentioned quite often on John's blog."

"God, John's blog. For someone whose job involves sensitive information, the man does not know the meaning of discretion. Her being alive was to be kept secret yet he immediately wrote about it for the entire world to see!"

A short chuckle escaped her lips. "Probably don't have to worry about MI-6 recruiting him."

"I certainly do not."

"My point was, though, that you never showed any interest in me. You would barely admit that I was your friend, you always said that John was your only friend. Which, by the way, is a bit insulting to your other friends. So, why would I think you'd want to date me?"

"'Date' is such a puerile word," Sherlock muttered. "You're right, I never did demonstrate my affection and interest in you, I didn't know how to. Or at least know how to do it so you would know that I was genuine. It's why I seized the opportunity to learn what to do in relationships before entering one. I didn't want to damage our friendship," Sherlock emphasized the word pointedly, "by embarking on a relationship destined to fail. Knowing what you expect in a relationship would at least give us a chance of success."

Molly sighed. There was definitely logic to his thought process. Unfortunately it was inextricably entwined with a complete lack of emotional understanding.

Sometimes Molly wondered if Sherlock was just ridiculously inexperienced when it came to interpersonal relationships, or if there was another reason he was completely inept at emotions and understanding people. Of course, it wasn't like whatever the reason behind his inability mattered. Despite everything (or perhaps because of it, the jury was still out on that one) Molly still loved the idiot.

"I… understand why you did what you did. After you explained everything, of course. Before I didn't really quite understand or maybe I didn't want to understand, I don't know but," Molly grimaced at how loudly she said, 'but' in her attempt to get her sentences back on track. "But," she repeated more softly, "I need you to know how much you hurt me. Doing this."

Molly's stomach clenched with guilt as shame and horror flashed across Sherlock's face. It lasted barely a moment before he schooled his expression but it was more than enough for Molly. "I'm telling you this so you know, I'm not trying to be cruel. I just, I can't play this off for laughs. These last few months weren't…pleasant for me and I know if I don't tell you now and you or someone else jokes about this it'll just eat me up inside. At least for now. In a few months I'm sure it'll be fine, but just not, not now."

"Was it truly so bad?" Sherlock asked quietly, after the silence stretched on too long.

"I've had worse." Molly chuckled weakly.

"Molly."

It's strange that all he had to do was just say her name a certain way and she was incapable of not answering him. Her dad was the only other person who had had that ability. Molly grimaced at that realization. That was not a mental road she wanted to go down. At all. Though she was fairly confident she didn't have daddy issues or a daddy kink. The one time her uni boyfriend tried to role-play and ask her who her daddy was she just gave him a weird look and said, 'Lawrence.'

"Molly," Sherlock said again.

"It wasn't fun," Molly said firmly. "I really don't want to get into it. Let's just say there were quite a few nights that involved sweets, drinking, crying, and '80s films. Not all at the same time though."

Sherlock leaned back in the booth and stared at her with narrowed eyes.

Oh, she hated when he deduced her from her head to her, still disgustingly wet, socks. Molly pulled nervously at her still wet trousers, shuddering at the sensation of it pulling from her skin. She hated wet clothes. The only consolation was that her undergarments were still dry. If those had been wet…well she'd be in an incredibly sour mood.

"Your jeans are upstairs if you wish to change."

Molly blinked at him.

"Your trousers. If you want to change your trousers, I still have your jeans."

"Oh. That actually sounds fantastic." Her voice was a tad too bubbly, though she was truly happy about having dry clothes. "Have to take them back home anyway, might as well wear them!"

Molly dutifully followed Sherlock as he slid from the booth and made his way back to 221b, quite thankful that there was at least a moment's break in the storm.

"John here?" Molly cast her eyes around the sitting room, looking for the army doctor. She wasn't sure if his presence would be a good or a bad thing, honestly. Molly just wanted to be prepared.

"At surgery," Sherlock said as he disappeared down the hall to his room.

Molly stood in the kitchen, shifting from foot to foot as she tried to distract herself.

Sherlock came back to the kitchen and wordlessly held out her jeans.

"Thanks," Molly muttered before heading to the loo to change.

Peeling off her wet trousers felt both amazing and disgusting, the water residue made her skin feel clammy. Molly looked around for something to dry her legs with. Putting jeans on wet skin was not a pleasant experience. Grabbing a hand towel, Molly quickly scrubbed her skin, praying that the hand towel was just a hand towel. One never knew what dangers or oddities lurked in 221b. It could be natural mold culture for all she knew. She made a note to herself to scrub her legs extra thoroughly when she showered tonight. Just in case.

Sherlock was waiting for her holding a plastic bag open for her khakis when she came back to the kitchen. Sherlock closed the handles of the bag, trapping her hands in his after she dumped in trousers in the bag.

"It was never my intention to hurt you. I had hoped to achieve quite the opposite." His voice was so low that if she wasn't standing inches from him, she never would have made out his words.

"I know," Molly replied, her voice just as low. It was why he was so easy to forgive usually. Sherlock was a bit like a puppy; not in the playful innocent way, but in the way that sometimes he truly just did not understand that he did something wrong.

He even destroyed her shoes on occasion.

"Sherlock." Molly hesitated for a moment. "While what you did was, uh,-"

"Not good?"

"Right, not good," Molly agreed. "It would take more than that to stop my feelings for you and a hell of a lot more for me to stop being your friend. Though please don't test what my limit is!" She added hurriedly at the end.

Sherlock laughed softly. "I won't test it on purpose."

The pathologist stepped back, pulling the trouser laden bag out of Sherlock's grasp. "I'm going to go home now. Laundry to do, Toby to feed, and Guilder to frame for it! I'm swamped."

Sherlock pursed his lips and squinted his eyes. Molly almost giggled. It was Sherlock's classic Am-I-Supposed-To-Understand-That? Look.

"I watched a  _lot_ of '80s movies."

* * *

 

Sherlock bounced on his toes, trying to work out some of his nervous energy. This was it. Moment of truth. The day of days. Some other ominous cliché that should be utilized in situations such as these. Point was, today, this hour, this minute he was going to ask Molly on a date. A true one. Straight forward, couching it in completely unambiguous terms so she would know exactly what he meant. Once successful, he'd take Molly…somewhere and do…something which would kick-start their relationship and put this mess behind them.

He made a mental note to spend time thinking about exactly what to do with Molly on their outing.

Perhaps he should wait until he came up with an idea before asking her?

No. He was going to do it now. As soon as possible. Not exactly striking while the iron was hot, but the less time Molly had to dwell on the past few months, the better. Showing Molly that he will be, well he will  _try,_ to be an adequate partner for her will hopefully mitigate the damage he may have done to their relationship.

Besides, lesser minds did this all the time so there was no reason he couldn't do it also. Even if it had taken him more tries and much longer than originally planned.

But Sherlock Holmes does not give up.

Especially when in regards to something, or well someone, that he wants.

The fact that John and Lestrade knew about his desire for a relationship with Molly just added to his resolve. The thought of the mocking, or even  _worse_  the heartfelt advice, that he would endure from the two of them sent shivers down his spine.

The door to the women's employee locker room swung open and Molly came out, decked out in scrubs, tying her hair up in a ponytail.

"Molly!" Sherlock called, wincing as Molly jumped. Bit too loud.

"Christ, Sherlock!" Molly faced him, a hand pressed to her chest.

"Right, too loud," Sherlock acknowledged, eager to get this over with. "Molly, I would like to spend time, no let me rephrase, I would like to take you out on a date, one with romantic undertones, no not undertones,  _over_ tones, not a friend date or a play date or any other platonic variants of a date, on your next free day."

Molly gave him a queer look. Not quite what he was hoping for but Sherlock refused to consider negative possibilities until she spoke. "I don't think anyone past primary school has play dates, Sherlock."

"That's not an answer."

"No, right it's not. A date on my next free day?" She scratched her head as she looked to the side, her eyes darting from side to side as if reading an imaginary piece of paper. "No."

Sherlock blinked at Molly. Was-was she rejecting him? Even after she still admitted that she had feelings for him? And she knew that he returned her sentiments? She's saying  _no?_

This was completely unexpected.

"But I can do the day after that," Molly said softly, not meeting his eyes.

Sherlock just barely managed to stop himself from sighing in relief. "Right. Good. I'll text you the details and see you then. Well unless a case comes up because then I'll see you before then. Or I'll have to cancel and see you late-" Sherlock cut himself off. Christ, he was  _babbling_.

"Okay," Molly acknowledged. "Um, was there anything else you need? Cardiology has called me up for a surgical consult, but if you're just picking up something or need to see a body I can get Cole to help you."

"No, I just came to ask - since when do  _you_  do surgical consults?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Surgical  _pathology,_ Sherlock."

"I know that, but when was the last time that you did surgery?"

"Are you calling me incompetent?" Molly raised her eyebrows.

"What? No.  _No._ " Sherlock shut his mouth with a click. How did this conversation go south so quickly? "I-you usually don't do surgical consults?"

"Relax, I'm teasing you. A bit. Nnamdi usually does the consults but he's on holiday and on that note I have to go. There's a 58 year old with his chest cracked open upstairs waiting for me to look at a lump on his left atrium. How they missed that during diagnostics, I will never know." Molly shrugged and headed towards the lifts.

"Cardiac tumors are rather rare…" Sherlock let his voice trail off; hoping Molly would catch his hint as he joined her.

"Sherlock, are you seriously telling the  _pathologist_  the incidence of cardiac tum-oh. No. No! You can't have it!"

The lift signaled its arrival with two soft dings.

"I may never have this opportunity again," Sherlock wheedled, following her into the lift.

"No, Sherlock, honestly!" Molly punched the button for the surgical floor.

"What if I say please?"

"You never say please! At least not sincerely."

"Please?"

"No!"

* * *

 

_Well this was déjà vu all over again._

Molly rocked on heels as she waited for the door to open. It had been almost a minute since she'd knocked and then pounded on the door and Sherlock still hadn't come downstairs. The pathologist tried to swallow down her anxiety. Sherlock seemed so sincere in his explanation of his actions. But, but there was a small part of her brain that refused to believe him. It reminded her of all her fears, insecurities, and deficiencies in a soft almost condescending whisper.

Molly pressed Mrs. Hudson's doorbell. She refused to give into her darker thoughts. At least not now.

"Molly! What do I owe the pleasure, love?" Mrs. Hudson asked the moment the door swung open.

"Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hudson-"

"Oh, Martha, dear, call me Martha."

Molly fought down a grimace. It's not that she didn't like Mrs. Hudson, quite the opposite Molly thought that the older woman was hilarious and lovely in every way. It just seemed so wrong to call her by her first name. "Right uh, Miss Martha." A fake cough obscured the 'Miss.' Stupid, but it made her feel better. Less like her grandmother would rise from her grave to smack her upside the head with her pocketbook for cheeking her elders. "Sherlock asked me over but he's not answering. Mind letting me in?"

"Oh, of course, love." Mrs. Hudson gave Molly an exaggerated wink that left the younger woman a bit on edge. What did she know that Molly didn't? "Go right on up."

"Thanks," Molly muttered, making her way up to Sherlock's flat.

"Not today, George!" Molly heard Sherlock shout halfway up the stairs.

"Well, why the hell not? I saw the look on your face, you want to take this case."

"Leave the deductions to experts, Lestrade. I have other obligations today," Sherlock ground out. Molly walked as quietly as she could up the stairs. She would be lying if she said she wasn't interested in their conversation.

"Obligations?" Lestrade asked incredulously with a bit of a laugh. "Are you taking the piss? You don't even know the meaning of the word!"

Sherlock spun around, the murderous look on his face suddenly morphing to a more inviting one as he caught sight of Molly. "Molly! Come in, come in, Guy was just leaving."

"Ohhhh." Lestrade looked from Molly back to Sherlock, a shit-eating grin on his face. " _Obligations_."

Molly was fairly certain that her cheeks were so red that it could be seen from the international space station. The petite woman was just unsure if her blush was from the current situation or the remembered mortification that Greg had known about how she talked to him about Sherlock and John and he had known what Sherlock was doing. "Hi Greg. What's brought you 'round?"

"Got something for Don Juan over there. Right up his alley. Possible attempted murder. Almost certainly a case of spontaneous human combustion."

Molly blinked. " _What?"_  She had heard what Greg had said but her mind just could not process the thought of someone talking about spontaneous human combustion seriously.

"Yup. Went right up in flames in a room full of people. They managed to put her out but she'll be in hospital for quite some time."

"So… you need Sherlock to determine how she caught on fire?"

Sherlock let out a suffering sigh. "Victim has recently been on the receiving end of various threats. All very creative. All very poorly spelled. Lestrade wants me to look over the scene, see if her combustion was less spontaneous and more planned. But," he emphasized, "I have plans for the day and can't go. No, thank you for coming, Lestrade." Sherlock shoved the detective inspector out the door. "Enjoy questioning your charcoal briquette."

"Spontaneous human combustion?" Molly questioned, raising her eyebrows at the consulting detective cum possible (probable?) paramour.

"Highly unlikely." Sherlock bounced on his toes, eyes darting about the flat.

"You are just gasping to go, aren't you?" Sherlock was an absolutely fabulous actor but he was absolute shit when it came to concealing his eagerness for a case. Or maybe she was just very good at reading Sherlock. Either way, it was laughably obvious that the idea of this case was an unexpected treat.

"Uh, yes, we can be on our way, I suppose."

"I meant to the scene. You want to disprove that it was spontaneous. Catch the person who did it."

Molly couldn't even say that Sherlock did an adequate job trying to hide his guilt. He was like a puppy fidgeting anxiously as it sat still for a treat.

"You should go."

Sherlock's head shot up, surprise on his face. "I said that I would spend time with you today. I  _want_ tospend time with you."

"Maybe, uh, maybe I could come with you?" Molly's voice was so soft by the end it was nearly inaudible.

Sherlock peered at her. "You're serious."

The pathologist nodded. "Point of a date is to do things together, yeah? We can do that anywhere so why not while you're solving a maybe crime? I've never seen you work first hand like this."

Molly was fairly confident that Sherlock would not have been more surprised if Molly revealed to him that she was, in fact, several rather talented badgers in a human suit.

The consulting detective grinned and grasped Molly's hand pulling her to the door, grabbing his coat along the way, and down the stairs to Baker Street. He hailed a cab while shrugging on his coat.

It was absolutely preternatural the way that man managed to get cabs.

Sherlock hurried her into the cab. "No. 8 Northumberland," he said as he shut the door behind them and pulled out his phone.

After a few minutes of Sherlock madly texting, Molly finally broke the silence. "Out of curiosity, what did you have planned for us?"

"I managed to get us into the Black Museum at the Met. I thought it would be interesting. Apparently there is a new exhibit on Ruth Ellis. Last woman to be executed." Sherlock clarified. "Killed her lover."

"You wanted to take me to an exhibit about a woman murdering her boyfriend? Doesn't really speak to a promising beginning."

"Well, should you come to the conclusion that you need to kill me," Sherlock said, still madly typing on his mobile, "I would hope that you would have the courtesy to chose a more inventive way than shooting me in the street. At least make it a mystery. Preferably one good enough that only I could have solved it. An appropriate ending I think."

"I don't know if I'm good enough to kill creatively, I'd think you'd have to build up to creative killing." Molly glanced at the cabbie to see if she was listening to their conversation. She didn't look like she was but perhaps she just had a good poker face.

"It would definitely be difficult for a first kill, which would make it even better. I'm sure we can figure out a satisfactory way for you to kill me. The thought of being a boring murder victim makes me shudder." Sherlock punctuated his statement with an actual shudder.

"You're going to help me plan your theoretical murder." Honestly, she wasn't even really that surprised.

"Well you know what they say, if you want things done right, might as well do it yourself."

* * *

 

The horrifically boringly named Ballroom at no. 8 Northumberland Ave was one of London's grandest and most expensive Victorian styled venues. The white tablecloth covered tables had been shoved haphazardly to either side of the ballroom. Obviously the result of emergency services trying to clear the way to the victim.

A low whistle brought him back to reality. "What?"

"Hmm? Oh nothing, just  _goodness_ this is posh," Molly replied, her head tilted back as she examined the ornate recessed ceiling panels.

Sherlock shrugged. Most posh venues blurred together in his mind. The gilded haunts of London's elite tended to stay as static and tiresome as the upper class that frequented them. Minor differences such as a marble floor at one or blue walls at another didn't mask the overwhelmingly cookie cutter design.

"Ah, Lestrade."

The detective inspector waved them over to an alcove. "So, you brought Molly?" He said as they approached him, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Obviously and honestly, we're at a possible crime scene," Sherlock scolded. The policeman and John were always harping on  _him_  to behave, the very least they could do was set a good example. A good example in this case also had the added benefit of the DI  _not_ prying into Sherlock's personal affairs.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Aishwarya Sankaranarayan. 35 years old. Virologist at London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine. Came to the party 'round 12:30ish or so, mingled for around two hours, nothing of interest happened according to witnesses-"

"But they never know what is of interest," Sherlock cut in.

Lestrade shared a commiserating look with Sherlock before continuing. "She was walking away from the refreshments table and began screaming as her dress burst into flames. She drops to the ground." The detective flipped to the next page of his notebook. "Someone throws the bowl of lemonade on her. Other people throw various liquids on her. Thankfully none of them alcoholic. Fire is put out soon after but not before the victim sustained third degree burns to a large portion of her trunk, thighs, and parts of her right arm. She's still in treatment but according to the last update, she's expected to make a full, though painful, recovery provided she doesn't succumb to an infection."

"I need to see where she was, any CCTV, and her clothes. I assume the scene is over there where Anderson is stomping." Sherlock didn't bother waiting for confirmation, already walking towards the crowd of technicians and police.

"Um, I'll just stay here, yeah?" Molly called after him.

"If that's what you want to do. I don't suspect I'll be long," Sherlock replied distractedly. There likely wasn't going to be many clues at the scene of the suspected crime, but one did have to be thorough.

A concept Scotland Yard should think about adopting.

Sherlock crouched at the edge of the scene, ignoring Anderson's quips. Really it was too easy sometimes to verbally decimate him that it was almost embarrassing to engage him. Bit like stealing sweets from a child. So easy it was wrong.

For being the scene of a near immolation, the carpet was mostly unscathed. Most of the damage came from putting out the fire than from the fire itself. Sherlock tilted his head to get a better angle of the rug. Ah, just as he thought. Carpet was made of polypropylene. So it melted instead of burned.

Sherlock jumped up and took a step back to take in the pattern of melted carpet. It was spread out over roughly a square meter of carpet. Most likely from Dr. Sankaranarayan's thrashing as she attempted to smother the fire. Looked like she took stop, drop, and roll to heart.

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and knelt in order to examine the little bit of ash that was sprinkled on the carpet. He picked up one of the larger pieces and brought it to his nose. Burnt leaves and no discernible smell of any accelerant. Sherlock rubbed the ash together between his thumb and first two fingers to confirm his suspicions. The ash crumbled easily under the light pressure and fluttered to the carpet. Cotton.

Cotton. No discernable accelerant smell. Polypropylene carpet. Victim attempted to smother the flames. Lemonade and water was used to help extinguish the fire.

The detective furrowed his brow at the damp patch. He needed clay in order to make bricks and the clay that the current data had wrought was nowhere near enough.

Sherlock shouldered his way out of the crowd and back to the alcove where he left Lestrade and Molly. The detective inspector was talking to one of policewomen milling about. ( _Hitting on a subordinate at a possible crime scene? Tsk tsk detective inspector_.) Molly was sat at a nearby table, her head resting on her hand as she poked at her phone's screen. Judging by the annoyed expression on her face, she was playing Sudoku and was currently at a block. She gave him a small smile as he approached, one that he briefly returned.

"Nothing of importance to gain here."

The policewoman whom Lestrade was flirting with jumped at the sound of his voice. Not very observant for a police officer. Sherlock glanced at her (Second, no third generation Southeast Asian. Most likely Pakistani judging by her surname. One dog. Insomniac and currently having a mighty row with her girlfriend) before turning to Lestrade. "Who has her clothes?"

The inspector's sigh and grimace told him everything.

* * *

 

"Here is what's left of the victim's clothes," Sergeant Donovan said, gesturing to the burnt fabric that was roughly arranged to look like a dress. Twisted metal and loose buttons were placed next to the fabric.

"What on earth is that?" Molly pointed to a quarter sphere of bent and misshapen wire.

"I believe it's part of her bustle." The policewoman tilted her head, examining the remnants.

" _Bustle?_  At a birthday party? _"_

"Fancy dress," Sherlock, crouched down to look at the clothing remnants at eye level, muttered. "Hmm, made not bought, interesting…"

"Apparently along with manipulating viruses, Dr. Sankaranarayan also liked recreating vintage clothing. Too bad most of her hard work has been destroyed." Sally limped around to the other side of the table, the rubber tip of her cane thumping softly as it hit the tile. "This is part of her corset. Looks like it was a nice one too, whalebone. Might even be authentic."

"Whalebone? Like actual bones of whales?" Molly asked. Why would whalebone be used? Why not cow bone or sheep bone or other readily accessible bones?

Sherlock straightened from his perusal of charred something or another (Skirt? Jacket?) to raise his eyebrow at the policewoman.

"I have a life outside work, Sherlock," Sally said with a roll of her eyes.

"Obviously. And that 'outside life' is how you received your injury. Best leave football to the professionals, it doesn't seem to be doing you any good."

Molly wasn't entirely certain of the source of enmity between the two of them. The few times Sergeant Donovan came to her morgue, she was respectful and efficient, unlike many of her brethren at the Met. The tossers.

According to John, the two of them had been at war before he ever met Sherlock. Sally would provoke Sherlock into saying something, well, Sherlockian and then get incensed. Of course, as Sherlock's best mate, the former army doctor was prone to bias even though he would claim otherwise. Greg's take on the matter was decidedly more sympathetic to his second in command. And honestly, a lot more believable in Molly's opinion. She loved Sherlock but she was well aware of his habit of provoking people for a reaction. The sergeant was the perfect victim, as she didn't seem like the type to just roll her eyes and ignore Sherlock, the only effective way of stopping him. Fighting back usually just made him worse as he would try to come out on top in the resulting tiff.

"What's that?" Molly asked, pointing to a blob of…something. Hopefully the question would turn their attention away from goading each other and back to the case.

"Looks like a fan." Sherlock poked the blob with a pencil, showing that what Molly thought was a large blob was, in fact, several smaller blobs piled on top of each other.

"It looks like plastic, though." If this woman was serious enough to have an authentic whalebone corset, it didn't seem right that she would have a cheap plastic fan. Hell, Molly had a nicer folding fan than that and she bought it for like 10 yuan while on holiday.

"They had plastic in the 19th century. Well, a precursor of plastic. Could be a replica," Sally chimed in.

Sherlock jerked up from where he was bent over the table. "Of course! I need to see the security tapes."

"'Of course?' What 'of course?'" Molly called after Sherlock as he ran out of the room. She turned to Sally who just shrugged her shoulders and followed the black haired detective.

"I hate it when he does that," Sally muttered to herself.

Molly hummed in agreement as she kept pace with the injured policewoman as they walked through the halls of New Scotland Yard. His sudden proclamations drove her batty in the beginning but now she'd grown so used to them she barely noticed.

"So whalebone corsets?" Maybe now that they were sans Sherlock, perhaps Sally would answer her question. Though, Molly supposed she could just Google it later.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. They used the bendy bit of a whale's mouth, not like its ribs or something. My mum always preferred using whalebone corsets if possible though metal ones were cheaper."

"Oh, what did your mother do?" She didn't know Sally well enough for them to have companionable silence, so hopefully idle talk would keep them occupied on their journey.

"She is, well was -she's retired now - a costume designer. Mostly plays, but she did a couple of movies here and there. She used to make my brother and I help her when she was close to deadlines. There are a fair number of dresses and suits on West End that have my blood on them." Sally gave Molly a wry smile that Molly returned.

If it wasn't skin, Molly was a shit seamstress. Sewing was one of those skills that she had meant to learn (along with knowing how to change the oil in a car, but since she hadn't owned a car in 7 years that wasn't a pressing concern). Her mum tried to teach her how to use her sewing machine, but then banned her from touching it once Molly managed to sew the presser foot into the fabric she was sewing. Neither she nor her mother could ever figure out how the hell she did that.

Molly pulled the door open for Sally as they entered Lestrade's office to find detective and DI crowded around a computer.

"See! Right there! That's where the fire started." Sherlock pointed at the screen emphatically.

"I still don't see it, Sherlock."

"Keep an eye on the woman with the feather in her hair," Sherlock instructed as Sally and Molly headed around the desk to join them.

Molly stared at the rather statuesque woman with a large peacock feather in her hair. Her movements were jerky due to the CCTV recording, but she could see her rubbing her hand idly on what appeared to be a muff hand warmer as if it were a pet. Dr. Sankaranarayan entered the picture, bumped into the woman with the muff, said something and continued to walk away until her skirts burst into flames moments later.

Sherlock paused the film and looked expectantly at the trio. Molly immediately averted her gaze and began to inspect her nails. No way in hell was she going to be the first to admit that she had no idea what significant event she was supposed to have witnessed.

Apparently annoyed at the lack of replies, Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Look at her! She's rubbing her handwarmer, which I suspect is made of real fur, while wearing, most likely, silk gloves. You can tell she's a professional socialite, no way would she wear anything less than silk. She's generating loads of static electricity. Dr. Sankaranarayan brushes against her, transferring some of the electricity to her, which causes her fan to combust, fire ignites her clothing and she goes up in flames. Therefore a freak accident. And  _not_  spontaneous combustion."

"Oh honestly, Sherlock," Lestrade groaned. "Her  _fan_  set her on fire? I have a controversial scientist in hospital who has reported numerous threats against her and you want me to tell my bosses that it was an accident via  _fan._ "

"If it was made of celluloid, chances are Fre - Sherlock is right." Sally looked a bit like she swallowed something sour as she spoke from where she was perched on the desk.

Lestrade's mouth dropped open as he stared at his second in command.

Molly got the feeling that Sherlock and Sally didn't agree with each other too often. Or at least didn't admit to agreeing with each other.

"Celluloid is very flammable and can spontaneously combust," Sally defended. "Remember the fire in evidence a couple of years ago during that heat wave? It was caused by old celluloid film combusting."

"To be honest, I'm a bit disappointed it wasn't actually a case of someone spontaneously combusting. That would have been brilliant," Molly muttered.  _Oh Christ, did she say that out loud?_ The pathologist clapped her hands over her mouth, as if by hiding her mouth no one would have heard her. Judging by the shocked looks on the police officers' faces and the amusement on Sherlock's, she was wildly unsuccessful.

Sally shook her head. "You two are perfect for each other."

* * *

 

"This was not a very satisfying date was it?" Sherlock poked at his barg, avoiding Molly's gaze. Sitting by idly as your date mucked around crime scenes and evidence could not have been all that interesting. Ending the date with Turkish takeaway at Baker Street instead of at the quaint restaurant he had intended probably didn't really help either. Sherlock's fist tightened, the ridges of the plastic fork he was holding digging into his skin.

He glanced at Molly out of the corner of his eye. She was setting down her plate of koobideh kebab on the coffee table.

"It was not what I would have planned," she said neutrally. "It was interesting to see you work out in the field, so to say, since I only see you work in the lab. The case, well at least the premise of it was intriguing."

Sherlock tossed the barg on to the table sending rice all about the wooden top and surrounding floor. "I should have ignored the case and done what I had planned."

"No!" Molly protested. "No. I-I think it was good that I came with you."

Sherlock shot her a look of disbelief. "You just said it was not a good date."

"No, I  _said_  it was not what I would have planned. I won't say that it was the best date I've ever been on, but I like that I went with you. Your work is very important to you, everyone knows that. You've told me before, about how cases help keep you sober. So, instead of canceling our date or being left behind or making you give up an interesting case, I thought it would be the best to join you. That way you don't have to compromise and I can still spend time with you, which is what counts. I think it will help us not to feel, uh, resentful? Resentful of each other when cases come up when we had planned time together. If it's good enough, you can take it and occasionally I can come with you so I won't feel abandoned." Molly grabbed a handful of her hair and began to nervously toy with it. "Obviously I wouldn't go on the dangerous ones, that's all John's, I'd be rubbi-."

Sherlock reached over, grabbed her face between the palms of his hands and fervently pressed his lips to hers. The movement was completely unplanned and artless.

Sherlock knew that Molly was very good at seeing him, but it wasn't until this moment that he realized that not only did she see him, she  _understood._  She understood why the work was so important. She understood that sometimes cases would take precedence. She understood that if she made him turn down cases repeatedly he would grow resentful and suffocate in the chains of a relationship. She understood that if he repeatedly cancelled plans for cases, she would begin to feel unwanted and abandoned. Molly understood him, understood him and was doing her best already to make them work.

Molly wanted them, Sherlock and Molly, as a couple to work. Something that Sherlock was honestly beginning to doubt would ever happen.

Sherlock pulled back slightly before leaning in to kiss her again. The first kiss could barely be classified as such, more a rough and rather poorly performed pressing together of lips. Too much enthusiasm, not enough thought. This second time was gentler. He could enjoy the softness of her lips and the lemony taste of sumac on her lips from her koobideh kebab. Now, Molly could respond instead of sitting frozen and,  _oh,_ how she responded!

They pulled apart again, their foreheads touching each other.

"You know," Molly said, her breathless voice sending a smirk to his face. "you know that relationships are a compromise and I get something in return for going on cases instead of dates."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose at that. "Oh? And what would that be?"

"Every time you interrupt a date or planned time together for a case, you take me to a play or musical of my choice."

"Ummm, nope," Sherlock replied, popping the 'p.' "Every five cases."

"Ummm, nope," Molly mimicked. "I think we both know where this negotiation is going. Every three, final offer."

Sherlock gave Molly a light peck on the nose. "Every three, but no musicals. That's why you have your girlfriends."

He rather liked a fair few plays, but musicals on the other hand were right out. He still had flashbacks from the one time his mother managed to drag him to  _Cats._

Molly heaved a dramatic sigh. "Fine, no musicals. Plays and ballets."

People dressed in tight clothing prancing around a stage for several hours? Dear God, it was exactly like  _Cats._ How could anyone find that entertaining?

"C'mon," Molly cajoled. "You can close your eyes and pretend you're at the symphony."

Well, at least no one sang during ballets. "Fine."

Molly scooted closer to him so she was half in his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

Sherlock looped an arm around Molly's waist and fell back onto the couch, pulling her on top of him. "I think we can find better things to do than negotiate."

Molly laughed and leaned down to kiss him again.

Better things to do indeed.

* * *

 

_I admit it, you were right. This did 'bite me in the arse'' as you said-SH_

_It's only been two weeks! What do you do?-J_

_Nothing. Things ar_ e  _going well.-SH_

_Uh…then why say it bit you in the arse?-J_

_I was not speaking metaphorically.-SH_

_Please, oh God, please tell me you mean that Molly's cat bit you.-J_

_You know I don't-SH_

_THAT'S TOO MUCH INFORMATION. CHRIST, SHERLOCK!-J_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And that's all folks!
> 
> Thanks to thatred-hairedgirl and the-doctor-wtf for looking this over and all their suggestions! They're absolutely lovely (and they fixed up my grammar so you can read this without scratching your eyes out.).
> 
> I can't thank you all enough for having stuck with this story (and me!) for this long. I hope that this is a satisfying conclusion to the story. So many people have encouraged and helped me make this story possible. Honestly, thank you all so very much!
> 
> If this story at all entertained you or made you laugh, I would greatly appreciate it if you could leave a review, or a kudos, or recommend this story to others who may enjoy it.
> 
> Hopefully, I'll see some of you over at my (slow going) Victorian!Sherlolly fic, Slowest of Growths. (Shameless plug? Maybe...)
> 
> A few notes re: the case:
> 
> It might sound ridiculous but celluloid is extremely flammable. Celluloid fires have burnt down houses (a spark from a fire once landed on the celluloid head of a doll and burnt down most of the house), maimed people, and were responsible for roughly the deaths of 3,000 women in the mid 19th century. Celluloid does spontaneously combust, especially if it is old and degraded. Usually you'll hear about celluloid fires as it related to old film.
> 
> Static electricity can and has started fires and caused deaths before. Unlike celluloid, the chances of static electricity causing more than just a mild shock is very, very rare. But in the right circumstances a perfect storm can occur.
> 
> So far, there is not any strong evidence that spontaneous human combustion exists. Most cases have an outside starter like a cigarette or candle, that ignites the…you know maybe you should google it if you're interested as I don't know how comfortable people are with the subject.


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